,1  t\it  ihfolog.Vi,,  ^ 


PRINCETON,     N.     J 


BX  9869  .W35  H34  1874 

Hall,  Edward  B.  1800-1866. 

Memoir   of   Mary   L.    Ware 
Shelf. 


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MEMOIR 


MARY    I^'f '^^A  R  E , 


WIFE   OF 


HENRY    WARE,    Jr. 


EDWARD    B.    HALL. 


Srinclftf)    Crjousanir. 


BOSTON: 
AMERICAN  UNITARIAN  ASSOCIATION. 

1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tbe  year  1852,  oy 

CROSBY,  NICHOLS,  AND  COMPANY, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Difitrict  Court  of  the  District  of  Maasacbnsetta. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

PA<U 

Inxroddction   ........       1 

n. 

Childhood 6 

Parentage. —  Character  of  the  Mother.  —  First  Training  of 
Mary  Pickard.  —  Early  Visit  to  England. — Friends  there. — 
Voyage  Home.  —  Extracts  from  Letters.  —  Residence  in 
Boston. — Pearl  Street.  —  First  Friendships.  —  Nature  and 
Education.  —  A  Friend's  Description  of  Mary. 

III. 

Mental  and  Moral  Culture    .    .    .    .16 

School  at  Hingham.  — A  Teacher's  Reminiscence. —  Sick- 
ness and  Death  of  Mrs.  Pickard. — Mary's  Position.  —  Her 
Father's  Circumstances.  —  Dr.  Park's  School.  —  Earliest 
Letters.  —  Thoughts  and  Themes.  —  Chosen  Friend.  —  Pe- 
culiar Confidence.  —  Return  to  Hingham.  —  Teacher's  Ac- 
count. —  Moral  Decision  and  Declaration.  —  Letters.  — 
Joiaing  the  Church.  —  Henry  Ware. 

IV. 

Discipline  and  Character 36 

Mr.  Pickard's  Embarrassments.  —  His  Correspondence 
with  Mary.  —  Her  Sympathy  and  Faith.  —  Her  Teacher's 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Testimony  to  her  Piety.  —  She  leaves  Ilinghani.  —  Her 
Grandfather's  Death.  —  Devotion  to  her  Grandmother.  — 
Visit  to  Northampton.  —  Her  Self-distrust  —  Interest  in  Dr. 
Channing.  —  Letters  on  his  Preaching,  and  Interview  with 
him.  —  Correspondence  with  Miss  Gushing.  —  Death  of  her 
Grandmother 


Changes   at   Home        ......       57 

Leaving  Pearl  Street.  —  Fears  for  the  Future.  —  Pecuniary 
Means.  —  Business  and  Travel.  —  New  York  and  Baltimore. 
—  Mr.  Pickard's  Displeasure.  —  Return  to  Boston.  —  Let- 
ters on  Providence  and  Bereavement.  —  Death  of  J.  E. 
Abbot.  —  Living  in  Dorchester.  —  Morl»id  Feelings.  —  Mar- 
riage of  her  Friend.  —  Her  own  Trials.  —  Influence  upon 
others.  —  Interesting  Case.  —  Dr.  Channing's  Absence  and 
Return.  —  Death  of  her  Father. 


VI. 

Visit   Abroad 92 

Loneliness.  —  Invitation  to  go  Abroad  —  Letters  relating 
to  it.  —  A  Friend's  Admiration. — Arrival  in  England. — 
Mrs.  Freme.  —  Letters  from  London  and  Broadwater.  —  Isle 
of  Wight.  —  Paris.  —  Iler  Friends'  Return  to  America.  —  She 
remains  with  Relatives  in  England.  —  Chatham.  —  Bur- 
combe  House.  —  Many  Letters.  —  Arrival  of  E.  P.  F.  from 
America.  —  Letters  from  Sydenham.  —  Tour  to  Scotland. 
—  Description  of  the  Country. 

VII. 

Scenes   of   Suffering 133 

The  Poor  Aunt. — Osmothcrly.  —  Sickness  and  Sorrow 
among  Kindred.  —  Mary  the  Chief  Nurse  and  Devoted  La- 
borer. —  Details  in  Successive  Letters.  —  She  goes  to  Pen- 
rith.—  Recalled  to  Osmothcrly. —  Further  Changes. —  Iler 
own  Sickness.  —  Anxiety  of  Friends  in  England  and  Amer- 
ica. —  Joy  at  her  Escape. 


CONTENTS.  V 

VIII. 

New   Relations .     176 

Keturn  from  England.  —  Welcome  Home.  —  Labors  of 
Love.  —  Henry  Wai'e's  Preaching.  —  Interest  and  Engage- 
ment.—  Their  Letters  to  Friends. — Views  of  the  Relation 
of  Stepmother.  —  Parish  Relations  and  Duties.  —  Sense  of 
Responsibility.  —  Desire  of  Usefulness.  —  Visit  to  North- 
ampton.—Disappointments. —  Husband's  Hlness  at  Ware. 

—  She  goes  to  him.  —  Thence  to  Worcester.  —  Birth  of  her 
First  Child.  —  Husband's  Journey  for  Health.  —  Poetical 
Epistle  to  his  Wife.  —  Newton.  —  Return  to  Sheafe  Street. 

—  Attachment  and  Removal.  —  Brookline.  —  Plan  for 
Cambridge.  —  Thoughts  of  Europe.  —  End  of  Parish  Life. 

IX. 

European   Tour 211 

Sailing  for  England  with  her  Husband.  —  Her  Feelings  at 
leaving  the  Children.  —  Difference  between  this  and  her 
former  Visit.  —  Her  Husband's  Sickness  and  Depression.  — 
The  Great  Trial.— Their  Route. —England  and  Scotland. — 
The  Continent.  —  Geneva  and  Letters.  —  The  Treatise  on 
Christian  Character.  —  Italy.  —  Naples  and  Rome.  —  An- 
nual to  Mrs.  Paine.  —  Birth  of  a  Daughter.  —  Mr.  Ware's 
Discouragement.  —  Mrs.  Ware's  Anxiety.  —  Her  Account  of 
Sufferings  and  Exertions.  —  Their  Return  to  France  and 
England.  —  His  Excursion  alone.  —  Her  Provision  for  her 
Aunt.  —  Letter  to  her  Children.  —  Passage  Home.  —  Hus- 
band's Illness.  —  Arduous  Offices.  —  Her  View  of  her  own 
Constitution. 

X. 

Life    in   Cambridge       .        .      "  .         .         .         .     237 

Final  Leave  of  the  Parish  in  Boston.  —  Removal  to  Cam- 
bridge —  New  Position.  —  Chief  Anxieties.  —  Pecuniary 
Straits.  —  Mrs.  Ware's  Sickness,  long  and  serious.  —  Hus- 
band's Feelings.  —  Emma's  Visit.  —  Letters  to  Mrs.  Paine 
and  Emma.  —  Mrs  Ware's  Recovery  and  Summons  to  Con- 


VI  CONTENTS. 

cord.  —  Mr.  Ware's  Illness  there,  and  Apprehensions.  —  Her 
Use  of  the  Warning,  and  Habit  of  Preparation.  —  Death  of 
her  Son  Robert.  —  Her  Account.  —  Devotion  to  her  Children. 
— Letters  to  John.  —  Cases  of  Hospitality.  —  Crowded,  but 
never  worried. — Journal  to  John.  —  Letters  at  the  End  of 
1832  and  1 833. -- Dangerous  Illness  of  a  Child. 

XL 

Life   in   Cambridge.     (Continued.)       .         .         .     270 

Prudence  in  Sickness.  —  Mrs.  Ware's  View  of  it,  andlilxpe- 
rience.  —  Her  Principle  and  Practice  in  Regard  to  Dress. 
Exemption  from  Sickness.  —  Social  and  Private  Efforts  for 
Others.  —  Moral  Cases.  —  General  Intercourse.  —  Sympathy 
with  Children. —  Hatred  of  Gossip.  —  Husband's  Severe  Ill- 
ness in  1836.  —  The  Aid  she  rendered  him.  —  Her  Interest 
in  the  Theological  Students.  — Their  Testimony  to  her  Kind- 
ness and  Influence.  —  Pecuniary  Embarrassment.  —  Death 
of  a  Sister.  —  View  of  Events  and  Circumstances.  —  Con- 
tinued Mercies.  —  Pleasant  Letters.  —  A  Change  approach- 
ing.— Various  Records.  —  Her  Husband  goes  to  New  York. 
—  His  Sickness  there,  and  her  Joining  him.  —  Return,  and 
Resignation  of  Office.' — Dark  Prospects.  —  Strong  Faith 
and  Hope.  —  Leaving  Cambridge. 

XII. 

Life   in   Framingham    ......     314 

Pain  of  Removal.  —  New  Residence.  —  Generosity  of 
Friends.  —  Extracts  from  Letters.  —  Faithful  Domestic.  — 
Views  of  Service.  —  Larger  Extracts.  —  Death  of  Dr.  Chan- 
ning.  —  loudness  of  Neighbors.  —  Mr.  Ware's  Elness  in 
Boston. —  Her  Feelings.  —  Return  to  Framingham.  —  Ilis 
Jaunts  and  final  Sickness.  —  His  Death.  — First  Sabbath.  — 
Burial  at  Cambridge.  —  Letters  to  Children  and  Friends. — 
Isolation  and  Suffering.  —  Labor,  Mental  and  Manual.  — 
Preparation  of  a  Memoir.  —  Communion  with  her  Husband 
and  the  Departed  Ones.  —  Letters  to  her  Son.  —  Looking  for 
a  new  Residence.  —  Decision  for  Milton.  —  Last  Record  of 
Framingham. 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

XIII. 

Life   in   Milton 364 

Mrs.  Ware's  Fears  of  Loss  of  Power.  —  First  Letter  from 
Milton,  describing  her  Condition.  —  Progress  of  Mind  seen 
in  her  Letters.  —  Views  of  Education.  —  Reliance  upon  her 
Children.  —  Various  Records.  —  The  New  Cottage.  —  Lotc 
of  Nature.  —  Beginning  of  Disease.  —  Continued  Work.  — 
School.  — Views  of  separating  Children.  —  Trust  for  Things 
Temporal  and  Spiritual.  —  Annuals  for  1845  and  1846.  ^ — 
Letters  of  Sympathy.  —  Letters  to  her  Children.  —  Son  at 
Exeter.  —  Her  Visit  there.  —  Views  of  Preaching  and 
Preachers.  —  Tribute  of  a  Pastor.  —  Family  Religion.  — 
Important  Letters.  —  Equanimity  in  Sickness.  —  Death  of 
Emma.  —  Visit  to  Cambridge.  —  End  of  the  Year.  —  The 
Time  yet  remaining. 

XIV. 
The  End .413 

Last  Days  natural,  not  wonderful.  —  Quietness  and  En- 
joyment. —  Relative  Duties.  —  Decline  of  Strength.  —  Dis- 
closure of  her  Disease.  —  Private  Paper.  —  Visit  to  her  Son. 

—  Once  more  a  Nurse  and  Helper.  —  Sinking  and  Rallying. 

—  Accounts  of  her  by  Friends.  —  Her  own  Account.  —  In* 
fluence  upon  Others.  —  Her  Pain  at  being  praised.  —  Letter 
from  England.  —  Her  last  Letter.  —  Conversation  on  the 
Future.  —  Her  Pastor's  Visit.  —  Closing  Expressions.  —  Her 
Husband's  Words.  —  Death  and  Burial.  —  Conclusion. 


MEMOIR. 


I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

The  life  of  an  unpretending  Christian  woman  is 
never  lost.  "Written  or  unwritten,  it  is  and  ever  wiL 
be  an  active  power  among  the  elements  that  form 
and  advance  society.  Yet  the  written  life  will  speak 
to  the  larger  number,  will  be  wholly  new  to  many, 
and  to  all  may  carry  a  healthy  impulse.  There  are 
none  who  are  not  strengthened  and  blessed  by  the 
knowledge  of  a  meek,  firm,  consistent  character, 
formed  by  religious  influences,  and  devoted  to  the 
highest  ends.  And  where  this  character  has  be- 
longed to  a  daughter,  wife,  and  mother,  who  has 
been  seen  only  in  the  retired  domestic  sphere,  there 
may  be  the  more  reason  that  it  be  transferred  to  the 
printed  page  and  an  enduring  form,  because  of  the 
very  modesty  which  adorned  it,  and  which  would 
never  proclaim  itself. 

Such  are  our  feelings  in  regard  to  the  subject  of 
1 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

the  following  Memoir,  and  such  our  reasons  for  offer- 
ing it  to  the  public.  It  has  not  been  without  scruple, 
and  after  an  interval  of  years,  that  the  family  and 
nearest  friends  o^  Mrs.  Ware  have  consented  to  the 
publication  of  factb  and  thoughts  so  private  and 
sacred  as  many  which  must  appear  in  a  faithful 
transcript  of  her  life.  Perhaps  this  reluctance  always 
exists,  particularly  in  regard  to  a  worrjan  and  a 
mother.  In  this  instance  it  has  been  very  strong, 
and  it  is  but  just  that  it  be  made  known.  Never 
was  there  a  woman,  we  may  believe,  more  retiring 
or  peculiarly  domestic  than  she  of  whom  we  are  to 
speak.  Never,  we  are  sure,  were  the  materials  of  a 
life  more  entirely  private,  and  in  one  sense  confiden- 
tial, than  those  which  we  are  to  use ;  for  letters  are 
all  the  materials  we  tave,  and  leUers  written  in  tne 
unrestrained  freedom  of  personal  friendship,  in  the 
midst  of  pressing  cares,  and  with  a  rapidity  and 
unstudied  naturalness,  which  will  appear  in  all  the 
extracts,  but  are  still  more  manifest  in  the  entire 
originals.  Her  correspondence  was  voluminous,  to 
an  extent  unsurpassed  perhaps  in  a  life  so  quiet, 
with  no  pretence  to  literary  character,  and  nothing 
ever  written  except  for  the  eye  of  the  receiver.  How 
would  the  writer  have  felt,  had  she  supposed  these 
letters  were  ever  to  be  opened  to  the  public  eye  ?  It 
is  a  question  which  many  ask,  —  some  with  pain, 
some  with  decided  disapproval.  It  is  a  question 
which  we  have  asked  ourselves,  and  we  prefer  to 
answer  it  before  we  enter  upon  the  work. 

To  answer  it  unfavorably,  to  yield  to  this  natural 
reluctance  to  publish  any  thing  designed  to  be  pri- 


INTRODUCTION.  6 

vate,  and  in  its  nature  personal,  would  deprive  us 
of  the  best  biographies  that  are  written.  It  would 
restrict  to  single  families,  and  to  a  brief  period,  the 
knowledge  of  facts  and  features,  of  all  most  reliable, 
most  valuable.  Indeed,  it  is  this  very  fact  of  humility 
and  reserve,  of  freedom  and  naturalness,  indulged  in 
confidential  communion  and  the  quiet  of  home,  that 
reveals  most  the- reality  of  virtue,  force  of  character, 
disinterested  nobleness,  and  the  power  of  religion. 
Who  is  willing  that  the  knowledge  of  such  examples 
should  be  withheld  from  the  many  who  crave  it,  and 
whom  it  would  stimulate  and  bless  ?  Shall  we  make 
no  sacrifice  of  our  own  feelings,  supposing  it  to  re- 
quire one,  shall  we  hoard  exclusively  for  our  own 
use  the  richest  of  God's  gifts,  when  those  by  whom 
the  gifts  have  come  to  us  spent  their  lives  in  service 
and  sacrifice  for  us  ?  To  these  obvious  considera- 
tions, we  will  add  our  firm  faith  in  the  knowledge 
which  departed  friends  have  of  the  motives  from 
which  we  are  acting,  and  of  the  influence  which  their 
own  modest  virtues  and  lowly  efforts  on  earth  may 
exert  upon  those  remaining  here ;  thus  continuing, 
in  a  higher  and  surer  way,  the  very  work  for  which 
the  loved  and  the  pure  always  live,  and  are  willing 
to  die. 

It  is  in  point,  not  only  for  our  immediate  purpose, 
but  for  the  exhibition  in  part  of  the  character  we 
would  delineate,  to  say  that  these  were  the  feelings 
of  Mrs.  Ware  herself,  in  regard  to  a  memoir  of  her 
husband.  Public  as  a  large  portion  of  his  life  was, 
she  shrunk  from  the  exposure  of  that  which  was 
private,  and  which  seemed  to  be  sacredly  committed 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

to  her  own  keeping.  She  remembered,  too,  his  pe* 
culiar  sensitiveness  in  this  connection,  and  the  in- 
junctions he  gave  when  under  the  influence  of  dis- 
ease and  depression.  But  another  voice  came  to 
her  from  his  present  higher  abode  and  larger  vision ; 
and  thus  she  wrote  to  a  friend,  of  the  conflict  and 
the  decision,  in  language  applicable  now  to  her  own 
case :  —  "  I  cannot  tell  you  the  agony  it  has  given  me 
at  times,  to  realize  that  that  sacred  inner  life,  which 
I  had  felt  was  my  own  peculiar  trust,  was  no  longer 
mine,  but  was  to  be  shared  by  the  whole  world. 
But  this  was  sinful,  selfish,  earthly ;  and  I  have 
gradually  left  it  all  far  behind,  and  can  now  only  be 
glad  that  such  a  life  is  shown  for  the  aid  and  en- 
couragement of  others." 

It  is  our  desire  to  give  to  this  Memoir  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  character  of  an  autobiography.  We 
have  few  facts  except  those  found  in  the  letters,  with 
the  advantage  of  an  intimate  intercourse  for  more 
than  twenty  years.  In  the  several  hundred  letters 
and  notes  that  have  been  put  into  our  hands,  there  is 
nothing  that  might  not  appear,  so  far  as  any  one  else 
is  concerned.  This  fact  is  well  worthy  of  note,  as 
belonging  to  the  character,  and  revealing  a  remarka- 
ble elevation  and  purity  of  thought,  —  that  in  such  a 
mass  of  free  epistolary  writing,  from  different  coun- 
tries and  to  persons  of  every  age,  not  a  single  severe 
stricture,  not  one  unkind  allusion  or  offensive  per- 
sonality, much  less  any  approach  to  petty  gossip,  can 
be  found.  We  feel  the  greater  freedom  in  making 
copious  extracts ;  and  shall  attempt  little  more  than 
so  to  arrange  and  connect  them  as   to  give  a  fair 


INTRODUCTION. 


view  of  the  whole  life,  or  rather  of  the  mind  and 
character  that  appear  in  every  part  of  the  life.  That 
a  life  so  private  contained  such  a  variety  of  incident, 
and  a  measure  of  unavoidable  publicity,  was  the 
ordering  of  Providence  ;  and  may  serve  to  show  that 
the  sphere  of  woman,  even  the  most  domestic  and 
silent,  is  broad  enough  for  the  most  active  intellect 
and  the  largest  benevolence. 


11. 

CHILDHOOD. 

Mary  Lovell  Pickard  was  an  only  child,  her 
parents  having  but  one  other,  who  died  an  infant 
before  the  birth  of  Mary.  She  was  born  in  Atkinson 
Street,  Boston,  on  the  2d  of  October,  1798.  Mark 
Pickard,  her  father,  was  an  English  merchant,  who 
came  to  this  country  on  business,  and  remained  here. 
Her  mother  was  Mary  Lovell,  daughter  of  James 
Lovell,  and  granddaughter  of  "  Master  Lovell,"  so 
long  known  as  a  classical  teacher  in  Boston.  James 
Lovell,  the  grandfather  of  the  subject  of  this  Memoir, 
was  a  man  of  mind  and  influence.  He  had  been 
active  in  the  Revolutionary  war,  and  was  once  made 
prisoner  at  Halifax,  sharing  there,  it  is  said,  the 
prison  of  Ethan  Allen.  Subsequently  he  was  a 
prominent  member  of  the  Continental  Congress,  and 
at  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  received  the  ap- 
pointment of  Naval  Officer  in  the  Boston  custom- 
house, a  place  which  he  retained  until  his  death. 
A  man  of  free  and  bold  thought,  associating  much 
at  one  time  with  French  officers,  Mr.  Lovell  adopted 
some  infidel  principles,  became  familiar  and  fond 
of  Paine's  arguments,  and,  as  we  are  led  to  infer, 
treated  religion  with  little  respect  in  his  family ;  the 
family  in  which  Mary  Pickard,  as  well  as  her  mother, 


CHILDHOOD. 


passed  her  childhood  and  youth.  James  Lovell  had 
nine  children,  but  only  one  daughter,  Mary,  who 
grew  up  the  idol  of  the  family.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-five  she  married  Mark  Pickard,  who  was 
seventeen  years  her  senior,  but  not  her  equal  in  in- 
tellect or  energy,  we  infer,  yet  always  kind  and  most 
tenderly  attached  to  her.  She  was  a  woman  of  rare 
excellence,  in  whose  character,  as  drawn  by  those 
still  living  who  knew  her  well,  we  can  see,  as  usual, 
much  that  accounts  for  the  character  of  the  daughter. 
Mrs.  Pickard  had  been  educated  in  Boston,  and 
well  educated,  having  a  naturally  vigorous  mind  and 
strong  common  sense.  She  was  a  woman  of  self- 
culture,  loving  books  and  choosing  the  best,  convers- 
ing with  marked  propriety  as  well  as  ease,  and  ex- 
hibiting decided  energy  and  generosity  of  character. 
In  person,  she  is  described  as  remarkable  ;  of  so 
commanding  figure,  benignant  countenance,  and 
dignified  demeanor,  as  to  draw  general  observation 
in  public,  and  suggest  the  thought  once  expressed 
by  a  gentleman  of  intelligence,  —  "She  seems  to 
me  as  if  she  were  born  for  an  empress."  Yet  her 
empire  was  only  the  home,  and  her  life  peculiarly 
domestic ;  with  enough  of  discipline  and  change  to 
prove  her  fortitude,  but  never  to  damp  her  cheerful- 
ness. She  was  a  Christian.  In  early  life,  perhaps 
from  causes  already  referred  to,  her  mind  had  been 
disturbed,  and  apparently  doubts  raised,  though 
never  fixed,  by  sceptical  writers  and  so-called  philo- 
sophical reasoners,  —  more  common  in  good  society 
then  than  now,  and  more  bold  and  insidious,  not- 
withstanding our  complaints  of  present  degeneracy. 


8 


CHILDHOOD. 


A  gentleman  to  whom  Mrs.  Pickard  had  once  com 
municated  her  difficulties,  and  who  was  less  a  be- 
liever than  she,  spoke  of  her  the  day  after  her  death, 
in  reference  to  that  conflict,  as  "  one  of  strong  mind, 
who  took  nothing  upon  trust"  even  at  that  early 
age  when  she  approached  him  with  "  obstinate 
questionings."  Whatever  the  effect  upon  his  faith, 
her  own  was  strengthened  by  all  inquiry  and  ex- 
perience. She  was  a  member  of  the  Episcopal 
Church,  though  apparently  less  a  devotee  to  its 
ritual  than  Mr.  Pickard.  Not  sect,  but  piety,  was 
the  source  of  her  power  and  peace.  "  In  religion," 
says  one  rnost  intimate,  "she  was  unostentatious 
and  charitable,  but  decided  and  sincere ;  and  her 
whole  life  was  an  exhibition  of  the  ascendancy  of 
principle  over  mere  taste  and  feeling." 

Such  was  the  mother,  who  was  the  constant  com- 
panion and  instructor  of  an  only  daughter,  through 
the  whole  of  childhood ;  for  Mary  never  attended 
school,  that  we  can  find,  until  she  was  nearly  thirteen 
years  old.  But  in  that  best  of  schools  for  the  very 
young,  an  intelligent  and  quiet  home,  she  was  well 
instructed  in  the  common  branches,  in  habits  of 
order,  refinement,  and  frugality,  in  principles  of  un- 
deviating  truth  and  integrity,  and  in  that  most  es- 
sential of  all  accompfishments  for  a  girl,  whether  in 
ordinary  or  exalted  station,  the  use  of  the  needle. 
Her  mother  also  taught  her  to  sing,  being  herself 
passionately  fond  of  music,  with  one  of  the  sweetest 
voices,  and,  though  not  a  great  performer,  enough  so 
to  impart  a  love  of  it  to  her  child  which  always  con- 
tinued,  associated  with  holy  recollections.     "  Often," 


CHILDHOOD.  y 

says  one,  "  at  early  evening,  just  before  going  to  rest 

have  I  seen  the  little  girl  upon  her  mother's  lap,  and 

have  heard  her  singing  her  evening  hymn  :  — 

•  Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed ' ;  fee." 

In  January,  1802,  Mr.  Pickard  was  called  to  Eng- 
land on  business,  and  took  with  him  his  wife  and 
the  little  Mary,  then  but  three  years  old.  They  re- 
mained there  a  year  and  a,  half,  visiting  both  his 
and  her  relatives,  in  different  parts  of  the  kingdom ; 
Mrs.  Pickard  being  connected,  on  her  mother's  side, 
with  Alexander  Middleton,  a  Scotch  farmer,  in  whose 
family  Ferguson,  the  astronomer,  lived  as  a  shep- 
herd boy,  and  of  whom,  with  his  wife  and  three 
children,  there  are  still  existing  likenesses  drawn  in 
pencil  by  that  lad,  so  celebrated  as  a  man.  Among 
such  friends,  and  in  such  new  scenes,  we  can  believe 
a  deep  impression  would  be  taken  by  an  observing, 
thoughtful  child,  though  at  an  age  when  it  is  con- 
sidered of  little  consequence  what  a  child  sees  or 
hears.  Mary  never  forgot  the  enjoyment  or  the  in- 
struction of  that  visit.  When  she  was  again  in 
England,  twenty  years  later,  she  wrote  her  friends 
here  that  she  was  surprised  to  find  herself  recogniz- 
ing her  old  home  in  Guildford  Street,  London,  and 
other  objects  with  which  she  was  then  familiar. 
And  years  afterwards,  when  her  own  children  came 
round  her  with  the  never-satisfied  request,  "  Mother, 
do  tell  us  about  when  you  were  a  little  girl,"  the 
standing  favorites  were  incidents  which  occurred 
either  in  England  or  on  the  voyage  home,  and  par- 
ticularly the   following.      During   the   voyage,   her 


10  CHILDHOOD. 

fifth  birthday  came  round,  and  the  captain  promised 
her  baked  potatoes  for  her  dinner,  but,  as  the  cook 
burnt  them,  threatened  to  give  him  the  "  cat-o'- 
nine-tails " ;  when  poor  little  Mary,  not  taking  the 
joke,  burst  into  tears,  and  begged  him  "  not  to  hurt 
the  kind,  good  sailor,  who  did  n't  mean  to  burn  the 
potatoes." 

A  lady  who  came  as  passenger  in  the  same  vessel, 
has  told  us  of  the  peculiar  sweetness  of  little  Mary, 
and  the  universal  interest  and  love  inspired  by  her 
in  the  ship's  company.  And  this  from  no  outward 
attractions,  or  efforts  to  commend  herself,  but  by  the 
simple  power  of  goodness,  and  her  ever-prompt 
obedience.  If  inclined  to  go  anywhere,  or  do  any 
thing,  not  approved  by  her  mother,  it  was  always 
enough  to  say,  — "  It  will  make  me  unhappy,  my 
child,  if  you  do  that." 

A  few  extracts  which  we  are  permitted  to  make 
from  letters  that  passed,  during  this  absence  abroad, 
between  Mrs.  Pickard  and  her  parents,  will  help  to 
show  the  respect  and  affection  which  the  daughter 
inspired,  as  well  as  the  interest  felt  in  the  little 
granddaughter. 

Under  date  of  January  10,  1802,  James  Loveli 
writes  from  Boston  to  his  daughter  in  England:  — 

"  I  constantly  recur  to  the  joyful  consideration,  that  you 
though  absent,  are  still  left  to  me,  an  amiable  object,  within 
the  reach  of  hope,  and  a  source  of  expected  comfort  for 
my  last  days,  I  think  of  you,  at  this  moment,  as  safely 
arrived  with  your  most  worthy  husband,  and  my  None-such, 
in  health,  and  happy  among  your  friends.  My  engage- 
ments in  office,  especially  since  General  Lincoln  has  been 


CHILDHOOD.  11 

confined  by  sickness  at  Hingham,  have  occupied  me  very 
much.  Though  it  is  evening,  little  Dickey  is  bristling  up 
and  attempting  to  sing,  that  I  may  not  forget  to  tell  my 
dear  little  Molly  Pitty  how  constantly  he  looks  for  her  in 
the  morning,  at  the  rattling  of  the  tongs  and  fender.  Kiss 
the  dear  child  for  me.  James  Lovell,  —  need  I  add, 

your  affectionate  father  ?  " 

In  February,  1803,  Mrs.  Pickard  writes  home  to 
her  mother:  — 

"  Your  pickles  and  berries  came  in  good  order,  and  were 
very  acceptable,  particularly  to  my  darling  Mary.  She 
often  thanks  you  for  them,  and  is  now  writing  to  you,  and 
interrupts  me  every  minute  to  hear  her  read  her  letter. 
My  father  must  not  laugh,  and  say  I  call  my  goose  a  swan  ; 
every  one  allows  she  is  a  charming  child.  You  will  not 
be  able  to  deny  her  a  large  portion  of  your  love,  though 
you  have  so  many  lovely  ones  with  you.  She  has  been  an 
inexhaustible  source  of  comfort  to  me  since  I  left  you  ;  and, 
as  if  she  knew  it  would  please  us  all,  most  of  her  conversa- 
tion is  of  home  and  the  friends  she  left  there.  She  has  a 
sad  cold,  but  she  says  she  is  always  happy.  Farewell, 
dear  mother.     God  bless  you  all." 

March,  1803.     From  the  same :  — 

"  We  are  still  in  Guildford  Street,  but  think  of  going  into 
the  country,  where  Mary  may  have  more  field  for  exercise. 
She  is  pretty  well,  but  wants  a  little  country  air.  I  wish 
you  knew  all  her  little  chat  about  you,  so  pleasing  to  hear, 

but  so  foolish  to  write.     She  is  very  tall  and  lively 

Mr.  P.  is  even  more  anxious  than  I  to  go  home.  Mary  is 
the  only  contented  one.  She  is  happy  all  the  time.  She 
nas  a  very  sweet  disposition,  and  I  hope  will  one  day  be  as 
great  a  comfort  to  you  as  she  is  to  me.  She  is  telling  me 
a  thousand  little  affectionate  things  to  say  to  you." 


12  CHILDHOOD. 

In  the  fall  of  this  year  the  family  returned  to 
Boston,  and  lived  with  Mrs.  Lovell  in  Pearl  Street ; 
and  there,  with  parents  and  grandparents,  Mary 
found  a  home,  whose  blessing  filled  her  heart,  and 
never  left  her  to  the  day  of  her  death.  The  home 
of  her  childhood,  —  how  reverently  and  tenderly  did 
she  revert  to  it,  through  all  the  scenes  of  a  changing 
and  eventful  life !  Often  has  she  said,  that  she  was 
continually  carried  back,  not  only  in  her  waking,  but 
her  sleeping  hours,  "to  the  old  Pearl  Street  house 
and  garden ;  assembling  the  various  friends  of  all 
the  different  periods  of  her  life,  in  dream-like  incon- 
gruity, in  the  little  parlor,  with  its  black-oak  wain- 
scoting." There  also  were  formed  some  of  those 
first  friendships,  which  do  not  cease  with  childhood, 
but  affect  the  happiness  of  a  lifetime.  The  other 
half  of  the  block  in  which  they  lived  was  occupied 
by  Colonel  T.  H.  Perkins,  and  with  his  children,  of 
whom  some  were  near  her  own  age,  she  grew  up  in 
terms  of  daily  intimacy.  In  the  partition  between 
the  two  houses  there  were  doors  which  were  entirely 
closed,  except  their  keyholes ;  and  through  these, 
Mary  and  her  favorite  companion  used  to  sing  to 
each  other  "  all  the  songs  we  could  muster,"  and 
exchange  notes  and  experiences,  the  pleasure  en- 
hanced, no  doubt,  by  the  excitement  of  the  little 
mystery  occasioned  by  so  peculiar  a  mode  of  com- 
munication. 

So  far  as  our  scanty  materials  of  this  period  en- 
able us  to  judge,  tve  infer  that  in  the  training  of  this 
favorite  child  there  was  a  singularly  wise  union  of 
control  and  indulgence.     Mrs.  Pickard  seems  not  to 


CHILDHOOD.  13 

have  been  one  of  the  parents  who  think  control  and 
indulgence  incompatible ;  nor  does  it  appear  that 
Mary  was  inclined  to  refuse  the  one,  or  abuse  the 
other.  The  true  training,  we  suppose,  —  if  there  be 
any  rule  for  all,  —  is  that  which  allows  to  children 
all  the  freedom  and  enjoyment  consistent  with  def- 
erence to  authority,  refined  manners,  and  fixed  prin- 
ciples of  truth,  gentleness,  and  unselfishness.  That 
these  principles  may  be  inculcated  without  sternness 
or  perpetual  restraint,  indeed  with  a  large  allowance 
for  the  necessary  activity  and  often  irrepressible  exu- 
berance of  childhood's  spirit,  few  can  doubt,  though 
so  many  deny  or  forget  it  in  practice.  From  the 
views  which  Mrs.  Ware  herself  always  expressed  on 
this  subject,  and  the  reverence  and  gratitude  with 
which  she  adverted  to  her  own  childhood,  we  are 
confirmed  in  the  impression,  that  such  was  her  uni- 
form experience  at  home,  arid  with  the  happiest 
effect.  "  It  has  been  said,"  writes  a  friend  of  her 
mother,  "  that  she  was  much  indulged ;  and  I  be- 
lieve it  may  be  said  so  with  truth.  But  she  was  not 
indulged  in  idleness,  selfishness,  and  rudeness;  she 
was  indulged  in  healthful  sports,  in  abundance  of 
playthings,  in  pleasant  excursions,  and  in  compan- 
ionship with  other  children,  as  much  as  might  be 
convenient.  I  never  knew  her  to  be  teasing  and 
importunate,  obstinate  or  contradictory."  Nor  is 
this  to  be  ascribed,  as  many  will  be  ready  to  ascribe 
it,  to  natural  temperament  and  a  peculiar  exemption 
from  ordinary  temptations  and  trials.  Of  few  per- 
sons, perhaps,  would  this  be  more  generally  inferred 
or  confidently  asserted,  from  a  knowledge  merely  of 
2 


14  CHILDHOOD. 

her  subsequent  character.  It  is  on  this  account  that 
we  refer  to  it  particularly,  and  for  this  not  least  that 
we  value  the  example.  For  we  know  it  was  not  a 
case  of  peculiar  exemption  and  easy  control,  but 
rather  a  remarkable  instance  of  early  conflict,  the 
power  of  principle,  and  perpetual  self-discipline. 
This  we  gather  from  occasional  hints  in  conversa- 
tion, and  from  letters  to  her  own  children,  some  of 
which  will  appear  in  their  proper  place.  At  present, 
we  only  adduce,  for  the  right  understanding  both  of 
this  and  later  periods  of  her  life,  one  or  two  short 
passages,  like  the  following,  from  a  letter  to  a 
daughter.  "  The  tendency  to  self-indulgence  was 
also  one  of  my  trials,  in  early  life,  when  I  grew  rap- 
idly and  had  poor  health."  "  My  trials  of  temper 
were  different  from  yours,  but  they  were  very  great." 
"  What  a  comfort  it  is,  that,  although  those  who  see 
only  the  outside  can  never  compute  ivhat  is  resisted, 
all  our  struggles  are  known  and  appreciated  by  Him 
who  looketh  on  the  heart  as  it  is ;  and  that  He  who 
alone  can  give  us  strength  is  thus  enabled  to  know 
when  and  how  it  is  needed." 

To  this  brief  sketch  of  her  childhood  we  venture 
to  add  an  extract  from  a  letter  just  written  us,  by  a 
gentleman  than  whom  no  one  living,  probably,  was 
more  intimate  with  Mary  and  her  home,  at  that 
early  period.  After  a  warm  tribute  to  the  character 
of  the  mother,  confirming  all  we  have  said  of  her,  he 
speaks  thus  of  the  daughter :  — 

"  When  1  first  remember  her,  it  is  as  a  gentle,  loving, 
active  child,  always  doing  some  little  useful  thing,  and  the 
darling  of  her  parents'  hearts.     When  her  character  first 


CHILDHOOD.  15 

shone  on  ine  in  its  higher  attributesj  1  do  not  know.  But 
I  seem  to  myself  to  remember,  that  there  never  was  a 
time  when  I  could  have  supposed  it  possible  that  she  would 
do  any  thing  that  was  not  exactly  right ;  when  I  had  not 
perfect  confidence  in  her  tact  and  judgment  to  discern  duty, 
and  the  prompt  and  unhesiti<«/v/  determination  to  do  it,  as 
the  only  thing  to  be  done.'''' 


HI. 

MENTAL  AND  MORAL  CULTURE. 

Remaining  in  Boston,  with  little  change,  until  she 
was  thirteen  years  of  age,  Mary  Pickard  was  then 
taken  by  her  parents  to  Hingham,  Massachusetts, 
to  be  under  the  care  of  the  Misses  Gushing,  whose 
school  for  girls  enjoyed  at  that  time,  and  as  long  as 
it  continued,  a  very  high  reputation.  Her  instruct- 
ors there,  who  still  live,  seem  to  have  regarded  her 
as  a  friend  and  companion,  rather  than  a  child  and 
pupil;  and  the  fresh  recollections  and  tender  love 
with  which  they  always  speak  of  her,  and  delight  to 
dwell  upon  her  early  and  mature  character,  give  us 
an  impression  of  more  than  common  excellence. 
This  will  best  be  shown  by  an  extract  from  a  letter 
written  since  her  death  to  one  of  her  children. 

"Your  dear  mother  came  to  us  first  in  June,  1811;  a 
sweet,  interesting  girl,  thirteen  years  old,  tall  for  that  age, 
and  with  the  same  sweet  expression  of  countenance  she 
ever  retained  ;  remarkable  even  then  for  her  disinterested- 
ness and  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  her  power  of  gaining  the 
love  of  all  around  her.     She  went  home  in  November  of 

the  same  year,  and  returned  to  us  again  in  1814 

She  was  with  us  but  little  more  than  one  year  in  the  whole, 
and  in  that  short  period  endeared  herself  to  us  in  a  remark- 
able manner.     For  with  the  love  which  we  could  not  buj 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  17 

feel  for  her  was  mingled  a  respect  and  admiration  for  her 
high  principles,  and  the  piety  which  shone  through  all  her 
conduct,  in  a  degree  very  uncommon  for  a  girl  of  her  age. 
As  a  scholar  she  was  exceedingly  bright,  and  quick  to  com- 
j)rehend,  and  would,  I  always  thought,  have  made  an  excel- 
lent mathematical  scholar,  had  she  pursued  the  study  of 
that  branch.  Her  capacity  for  accomplishing  a  great  deal 
in  a  short  time  was  always  remarkable,  and  1  believe  she 
never  undertook  any  thing  that  she  thought  worth  her  atten- 
tion, that  she  did  not  go  through  to  the  satisfaction  of  others, 
if  not  of  herself.  Her  chief  object,  even  when  a  young  girl, 
seemed  to  be  to  do  good,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  her  fel- 
low-beings, and  she  considered  nothing  too  difficult  for  her 
to  undertake,  if  it  could  benefit  another  person  either  in  a 
temporal  or  moral  view.  You  have  had  sufficient  evidence 
of  this,  since  you  have  been  old  enough  to  judge  for  your- 
self, and  I  can  only  tell  you  that  it  seemed  to  be,  at  an 
early  period  of  her  life,  a  living  principle  with  her.  Yet, 
with  all  this  devotedness  to  the  highest  objects  and  purposes 
of  our  existence,  she  was  one  of  the  most  lively  and  play- 
ful girls  among  her  companions,  and  a  very  great  favorite 
with  them  all." 

Mary  had  been  but  five  or  six  months  in  the 
school  at  Hingham,  when  she  was  called  back  to 
Boston  by  the  threatening  illness  of  her  mother, 
who  continued  feeble  through  the  winter,  and  died 
in  the  month  of  May  following.  That  winter  must 
have  been  one  of  peculiar  experience  to  Mary.  It 
was  her  first  great  trial.  She  loved  her  mother,  not 
only  as  every  true  child  must,  but  with  a  reverence 
and  affection  heightened  by  the  unusual  circum- 
stance of  having  been  always  the  pupil  of  that 
mother  alone,  regarded  as  a  companion  also,  and 
2* 


18  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

called  now  to  the  tender  offices  of  a  nurse,  at  an  age 
when  most  children  can  ill  bear  confinement  and 
devotion  to  the  sick.  Mary  was  never  happier  than 
when  thus  occupied,  as  her  whole  life  has  shown. 
To  her  it  was  no  task,  but  a  grateful  privilege,  to 
spend  all  her  time  at  the  side  of  a  revered  and  de- 
parting mother.  For  six  months  was  she  allowed 
to  give  herself  to  this  blessed  ministry ;  and  when  it 
closed,  she  was  left,  a  girl  of  thirteen,  the  sole  com- 
fort and  chief  companion  of  her  father,  now  past  the 
prime  of  life,  broken  in  spirits  and  in  fortune,  cling- 
ing to  this  only  child  with  doating  and  dependent 
affection.  She  now  became  an  important  member 
of  the  family  in  Pearl  Street,  with  her  desolate 
father,  and  her  venerable  grandparents,  who  were 
still  living,  depending  themselves  more  upon  her  for 
their  comfort  than  upon  the  only  son  that  remained 
with  them,  a  young  man  whose  fine  talents  and  af- 
fectionate disposition  were  perverted  and  ruined  by 
sad  habits.  These  were  circumstances  to  call  out 
all  her  energy,  and  make  full  proof  of  her  judgment 
and  gentleness.  Mr.  Pickard  had  for  some  time 
been  embarrassed  in  business,  and,  from  a  state  of 
easy  competence,  was  then  and  afterwards  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  the  strictest  economy.  Of  his 
daughter's  essential  service  to  him  in  this  respect, 
we  have  frequent  intimations  in  his  own  letters ;  and 
not  only  by  her  prudent  management,  but  also  by 
her  generous  and  active  aid,  as  will  be  seen  still 
more  a  few  years  later.  For  her  father  survived  her 
mother  eleven  years,  and  during  the  whole  of  that 
period,  thoiTgh  not  always  together,  Mary  was  his 


MENTAL  AND  MORAL  CULTURE.  19 

efficient  helper,  and  his  devoted  nurse  in  sickness, 
of  which  he  had  a  large  share. 

For  two  years  after  her  mother's  death,  she  re- 
mained wholly  in  Boston,  enjoying  part  of  the  time 
a  new  privilege,  which  she  greatly  prized,  —  admis- 
sion to  the  best  school  for  young  ladies  then  in  New 
England,  or  the  country,  —  Dr.  Park's.  That  she 
would  improve  such  an  opportunity  to  the  best  of 
her  ability,  we  need  not  say.  Of  her  proficiency  as 
a  scholar,  there  are  no  particular  proofs.  She  was 
never  a  prodigy,  but  she  never  slighted  opportunity 
or  duty.  She  appeared  always  well,  distinguished 
at  least  for  faithful  preparation  and  uniform  accu- 
racy. And  especially  was  she  distinguished  for 
moral  excellence.  She  was  the  friend  and  favorite 
of  all.  If  petty  difficulties  occurred,  Mary  Pickard 
was  the  peacemaker.  Her  impartiality,  amiable- 
ness,  kindness  to  all,  and  perfect  truthfulness,  en- 
deared her  to  the  teacher  and  all  the  pupils;  from 
several  of  whom  we  have  had  the  testimony,  that  no 
one  ever  exerted  a  better  influence  upon  any  school. 

The  earliest  letters  we  have  from  Mary  were  writ- 
ten in  .1813,  the  year  after  her  mother's  death,  and 
about  the  time  of  her  first  going  to  school  in  Boston. 
They  are  the  letters  of  a  school-girl,  but  not  of  a 
child.  While  there  is  in  them  no  indication  of  re- 
markable powers,  to  which  she  did  not  pretend,  nor 
her  friends  for  her,  they  show  a  habit  of  reflection 
and  power  of  discrimination,  with  a  choice  of  topics 
not  usual  at  that  age.  A  few  passages  may  be 
given,  very  simple  and  juvenile,  but  indicative  of 
character. 


20  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

^'Boston,  February  27,  1813. 
"  My  dear  N : 


"  I  am  determined  another  day  shall  not  pass  before  I 
answer  your  letter.  I  think  it  is  the  best  way,  when  we 
receive  a  letter,  to  sit  down  immediately  and  answer  it ;  at 

least  I  find  it  so,  though  I  do  not  always  practise  it 

We  talk  so  much  when  we  meet,  that  there  is  little  left  to 
write,  and  I  am  now  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  The  folly  of 
the  fashionable  world  is  an  old  story,  and  if  not,  is  too  vast 
a  subject  for  our  limited  views  of  it.  Of  our  school  plan 
we  have  said  much,  but  we  can  say  more.  I  had  no  idea 
that  such  insignificant  beings  as  we  are,  in  comparison, 
could  ever  afford  matter  for  so  much  conversation  as  there 
has  been  on  this  subject.  Although  opinions  could  not  alter 
the  case,  yet  it  is  certainly  very  satisfactory  to  know  that 
our  doings  are  approved  by  those  whose  good  opinion  we 
value.  I  look  forward  with  much  pleasure  to  the  day  on 
which  we  shall  commence  our  studies.  We  shall  feel  very 
awkward  at  first,  but  it  will  soon  be  over,  and  then  we  must 
endeavor  to  keep  ourselves  exempt  from  the  condemna- 
tion that  falls  on  the  whole  school  for  the  faults  of  two  or 
three 

"  I  am  reading  '  Temper,'  and  like  it  much  better  than 
I  expected  to,  having  heard  nothing  in  its  favor,  and,  besides 
that,  being  prejudiced  against  it.  I  have  condemned  preju- 
dice in  others,  but  never  felt  the  effects  of  it  before ;  I  dis- 
like it  now  more  than  ever,  —  it  is  certainly  a  most  unrea- 
sonable thing.  I  like  some  of  the  characters  very  much, 
and  it  is  not  as  yet  very  tedious,  but  contains  many  good 
lessons.  I  find  many  that  I  can  apply  to  myself,  and  (as 
usual)  some  to  other  people.  It  cannot,  however,  be  com- 
pared to  '  The  Absentee  '  or  '  Vivian.'  Novels  are  generally 
said  to  be  improper  books  for  young  people,  as  they  take 
UD  the  time  which  ought  to  be  employed  in  more  useful 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  21 

pursuits ;  which  is  certainly  very  true  ;  but  as  a  recreation 
to  the  mind,  such  books  as  these  cannot  possibly  do  any 
hurt,  as  they  are  good  moral  lessons.  Indeed,  I  think  there 
is  scarcely  any  book  from  which  some  good  may  not  be 
derived  ;  though  it  cannot  be  expected  that  any  young  per- 
son has  judgment  enough  to  leave  all  the  bad  and  take  only 
the  good,  when  there  is  a  great  proportion  of  the  former. 
I  know  we  are  too  young  to  hold  up  an  opinion  of  our  own, 
independent  of  the  superior  judgment  of  those  older,  and 
this  I  would  not  do.  I  have  collected  mine  from  observa- 
tion, and,  if  it  is  not  right,  would  thank  any  one  to  correct 
it ;  nor  would  I  offer  it  at  all  to  any  one  but  you,  or  those 
of  my  own  age." 

That  last  sentiment  will  seem  very  juvenile  to 
many  young  people  of  the  present  day,  but  it  is 
none  the  worse  for  that.  Nor  by  this  writer  was  the 
expression  of  such  sentiments  restricted  to  that  age ; 
for  modesty  and  deference,  combined  with  self-re- 
spect and  decision,  were  marked  features  and  pecu- 
liar graces  of  the  character  we  are  presenting.  They 
are  features  and  graces  of  a  strong  mind.  Super- 
ciliousness, in  youth  or  maturity,  is  a  sign  of  weak- 
ness. And  it  says  little  for  the  improvement  or  the 
promise  of  the  present,  if  it  be  true  that  respect  for 
experience,  reverence  for  age,  and  meekness  of  ex- 
pression, are  rare  qualities  in  the  young.  Mary  was 
still  young,  when  she  wrote  to  her  father,  —  "I  am 
no  advocate  for  destroying  that  delicacy  which  forms, 
or  ought  to  form,  so  great  a  part  of  the  female  char- 
acter. But  such  a  degree  of  it  as  is  not  compatible 
with  sufficient  firmness  to  command  one's  self  in 
danger,  appears  to  me  to  be  false  modesty,  or  '  sickly 


22  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  ^ 

sensibility  of  soul,'  —  beneath  the  dignity  of  beinga 
endowed  with  power  for  higher  feelings."  Here  is 
that  union  of  humility  and  courage  which  marked 
her  whole  course. 

In  all  her  early  letters  there  is  an  entire  absence 
of  that  trivial  talk  about  dress,  parties,  and  the  gossip 
of  the  day,  so  common  at  her  age.  Instead  of  it,  we 
find  remarks  either  upon  moral  and  religious  themes, 
or  upon  her  reading  and  studies.  In  the  very  earliest 
letter  we  have,  written  in  a  child's  hand,  she  speaks 
of  her  interest  in  the  "  Life  of  Washington,  in  five 
large  octavo  volumes,"  and  expresses  the  opinion, 
that  "  the  history  of  one's  country  ought  to  be  the 
first  historical  lesson  of  a  child."  About  the  same 
time,  we  find  her  deeply  engaged  in  an  argument 
upon  the  moral  influence  of  the  study  of  astron- 
omy; and  her  mind  rises  to  the  highest  and  the 
largest  views. 

"  The  hand  of  Almighty  God  certainly  should  raise  in 
our  souls  such  unbounded  adoration  and  love,  that  our  only 
object  would  be,  to  be  worthy  to  appear  before  the  presence 
of  such  excellent  goodness,  and  partake  of  the  joys  of 
heaven.  It  seems  unaccountable,  that  any  one  could  for 
a  moment  raise  his  eyes  to  the  sky  and  not  be  convinced 
of  the  being  of  some  superior  power,  who  rules  and  directs 
the  paths  of  the  planets  and  the  ways  of  the  children  of 
men.  If  we  for  a  moment  transport  ourselves  to  another 
part  of  the  universe,  and  behold  our  little  insignificant 
Earth  in  comparison  with  the  rest,  or  with  any  other  planet, 
and  consider  how  highly  favored  it  has  been  with  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Son  of  its  Creator,  are  we  to  think  that  we  alone 
are  thus  honored,  and  that  superior  worlds  are  not  endowed 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  28 

.n  the  same  manner  with  a  knowledge  of  heavenly  things  ? 
But  I  find  myself  getting  into  an  argument,  on  which, 
though  the  subject  may  be  interesting,  the  style  of  the  writer 
must  be  tedious." 

These  extracts  are  from  letters  written  to  a  friend 
near  her  own  age,  with  whom  there  began  at  this 
time  the  longest  and  most  confiding  intimacy  of  her 
life,  out  of  the  circle  of  immediate  connections,  if 
indeed  any  exception  need  be  made.  To  this  friend 
are  addressed  some  of  the  first  and  last  letters  that 
Mary  ever  wrote,  and  by  far  the  larger  number  of 
all  which  we  use  for  this  sketch.  It  is  an  evidence 
of  the  faithfulness  of  her  friendships,  that  from  the 
date  of  the  earliest  letter  we  have,  through  nearly 
forty  years,  she  wrote  to  that  same  friend,  beside 
other  occasional  letters,  "  a  New  Year's  epistle," 
every  year,  to  the  last  in  her  life.  And  to  her  were 
confided  her  first  and  deepest  trials,  disclosed  to  no 
one  else,  and  beginning  while  at  school.  There  is 
something  both  ingenuous  and  magnanimous  in 
such  sentiments  as  the  following,  from  a  girl  of 
fifteen,  whom  the  death  of  a  mother  had  placed  in 
circumstances  of  peculiar  responsibility,  and  often 
painful  perplexity. 

"  I  expose  to  you  my  weaknesses,  my  faults,  my  passions. 
There  is  but  one  thing  of  which  I  have  the  slightest  appre- 
hension. You  may  sometimes  hear  me  blamed  for  deeds 
which  you  know  are  right.  You  will  hear  my  lot  in  life 
envied,  as  apparently  all.  that  the  reasonable  wishes  of  any 
being  could  desire.  And  sometimes,  too,  busy  Scanda', 
which  honors  even  the  most  insignificant  with  her  notice, 
will  glance  at  me.     Your  generous,  affectionate  heart  will 


24  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

prompt,  I  well  know,  on  those  occasions,  some  defence  of 
your  friend.  But  never  give  way  to  it ;  never  whisper  to 
the  winds  that  she  has  any  trials.  It  will  necessarily  in- 
volve the  question.  What  are  they  ?  You  are  the  only  per- 
son to  whom  I  ever  communicated  them,  and  my  conscience 
almost  reproaches  me  for  it.  I  try  to  think  my  peculiar 
loneliness  sanctions  it,  but  my  very  uneasiness  proves  ii 
was  not  strictly  right,  and  I  would  not  for  worlds  sin  far- 
ther. You  will  bear  with  me.  All  this  is  foolish,  but  I 
must  say  it.  I  defy  any  one  to  tell  from  my  appearance 
that  I  have  not  every  thing  to  make  me  happy.  I  have 
much,  and  I  am  happy.  My  little  trials  are  essential  to  my 
happiness.  They  teach  me  to  value  the  only  true  sources 
of  enjoyment  this  life  can  afford,  —  the  affection  of  the 
good,  the  cultivation  of  the  better  feelings  of  the  soul  in  the 
service  of  their  Creator,  and  the  joyful  hope  of  a  better, 
purer  state  of  existence.  Blessings  and  peace  go  with  you, 
and  pure,  unalloyed  felicity  be  your  portion  for  ever. 

"  Mary." 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1814,  Mary  left  Bos- 
ton for  Hingham,  to  be  again  in  the  family  and 
under  the  tuition  of  the  Misses  Gushing.  Of  her 
character  then,  and  the  renewed  impression  made 
upon  her  instructors,  a  letter  which  we  have  re- 
cently received  from  one  of  them  will  give  the  best 
idea  ;  though,  from  regard  to  the  writer's  wishes,  we 
quote  but  a  small  part, 

"  I  can  hardly  give  you  an  idea  of  my  feelings  towards 
her,  during  the  whole  of  her  residence  with  us,  without 
seeming  to  speak  extravagantly.  Every  day's  experience 
confirmed  our  first  impressions  of  her,  and  showed  in  some 
form  the  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  her  self-sacrificing 
spirit,  and   untiring  devotion  to  the  claims  of  those  about 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  xi& 

her.  She  possessed  such  purity  of  heart,  and  elevation  of 
principle,  as  were  certainly  uncommon  at  such  an  early 
period  of  life,  and  which,  it  seemed  to  me  then,  could  only 
arise  from  a  constant  sense  of  the  Divine  presence,  and  an 
habitual  communion  with  the  Source  of  all  good.  Love 
was  always,  with  her,  the  predominant  feeling  in  her 
thought  of  God,  and  I  have  heard  her  say  she  never  re- 
membered the  time  when  she  did  not  feel  that  she  loved 
God.  This  was  said,  you  may  be  sure,  not  boastingly,  but 
from  surprise  at  hearing  some  one  speak  of  the  difficulty 
of  giving  the  heart  to  God." 

And  now  came  a  crisis  in  that  inner  life,  which 
was  always  greater  to  Mary  Pickard  than  the  out- 
ward. Always  thoughtful  as  well  as  cheerful,  her 
interest  in  religion,  and  her  wish  to  be  wholly  a  fol- 
lower of  Christ,  led  her  to  an  act,  too  rare  with  the 
young,  and  requiring,  in  school  and  college  particu- 
larly, courage  as  well  as  principle.  She  desired  to 
connect  herself  publicly  with  the  Church.  And  the 
convictions  by  which  she  was  brought  to  this  pur- 
pose, with  the  views  she  entertained  of  the  nature 
and  importance  of  the  act,  we  make  no  apology  for 
giving,  as  fully  as  we  find  them  expressed  in  her  own 
letters ;  for  there  are  older  minds  that  might  be  in- 
structed, and  doubters  who  might  be  admonished 
and  aided,  even  by  so  youthful  a  believer.  Mary 
had  received  baptism  in  Trinity  Church,  Boston,  but 
it  is  evident  that  in  her  moral  training  more  heed 
had  been  given  to  the  cultivation  of  piety  than  to 
adherence  to  forms  and  special  doctrines.  The 
preaching  that  she  usually  heard,  in  the  church  ol 
aer  parents,  did  not  edify  or  satisfy  her ;  a  fact 
3 


SJ6  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

which  we  give,  without  comment,  as  part  of  a  faith- 
ful record,  and  as  we  find  it  in  her  own  account  to  a 
son,  in  one  of  the  last  years  of  her  life.  The  lan- 
guage in  which  she  there  describes  her  early  religious 
wants  is  unusually  strong  for  her,  and  might  seem 
extravagant.  We  give  only  the  result  of  her  dis- 
satisfaction with  what  she  heard  from  the  pulpit. 
"  The  final  effect  upon  me  was,  by  throwing  me 
more  upon  myself,  to  open  a  new  source  of  religious 
instruction  to  my  mind ;  and  I  can  now  remember 
with  great  pleasure,  and  a  longing  desire  for  the 
same  vivid  enjoyment,  the  hours  I  passed  in  '  my 
little  room,'  in  striving,  by  reading,  meditation,  and 
prayer,  to  find  that  knowledge  and  stimulus  to  virtue 
which  I  failed  to  find  in  the  ministrations  of  the 
Sabbath."  And  then  most  earnestly  does  she  ex- 
hort her  son  not  to  let  these  things,  or  any  thing, 
tempt  him  "to  treat  sacred  things  with  levity  and 
disrespect." 

Few  minds  have  kept  themselves,  through  life, 
more  free  both  from  levity  and  bigotry.  At  the  time 
of  which  we  speak,  she  seems  to  have  thought  only 
of  her  own  unworthiness,  her  need  of  religion,  and 
the  greatness  of  the  privilege  offered  her.  A  long 
note  which  she  wrote  to  one  of  the  teachers  with 
whom  she  was  living,  and  to  whom  she  confided  all 
her  feelings,  will  explain  the  whole.  It  bears  no 
date,  but  must  have  been  written  in  the  autumn  of 
1814,  when  she  was  about  sixteen. 

"  Saturday  Morning. 
"  Will  you,  my  dear  Miss  C,  pardon  my  addressing  you 
in  this  way,  when  under  the  same  roof;  but  as  I  could  not 


MENTAL  AND  MORAL  CULTURE.  27 

speak  on  the  subject  I  have  now  most  at  heart,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  any  one,  I  did  not  think  it  right  to  engross  exclu- 
sively so  much  of  your  valuable  time  as  would  be  necessary 
to  say  all  I  wish  to.  I  could  not  feel  satisfied  with  my  own 
conclusions,  until  I  had  appealed  to  you,  and  I  hope  this 
will  excuse  the  liberty  I  take.  Though  still  young,  I  have 
tasted  the  bitter  cup  of  affliction  and  disappointment,  and 
have  found  thus  early  that  all  worldly  enjoyments  are  in- 
capable of  promoting  happiness,  or  even  of  securing  present 
gratifications  ;  and  in  every  deprivation  have  felt  the  heal- 
ing balm  of  religion  to  be  the  only  source  of  consolation  to 
the  wounded  spirit  asd  afflicted  mind.  But  I  may,  indeed, 
say  with  sincerity,  '  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  have  been 
afflicted,'  for  it  led  me  to  reflect  on  the  end  for  which  I 
was  created,  to  examine  my  own  heart,  and,  by  comparing 
it  with  the  Christian  standard,  to  prove  its  weakness  and 
awake  to  a  sense  of  my  danger.  A  very  little  reflection 
convinced  me  I  had  been  leading  a  very  different  life  from 
that  which  was  requisite  to  form  the  character  of  a  true 
Christian,  and  that  I  must  exercise  my  utmost  powers  to 
redeem  the  time  which  I  had  lost,  and  which  could  never 
be  recalled.  Though  I  cannot  think  the  observance  of  any 
religious  ceremonies  sufficient  to  secure  future  happiness, 
unless  the  motive  for  their  performance  is  founded  on  faith 
in  the  word  of  God,  as  revealed  to  us  by  his  Son,  yet  they 
seem  to  me  necessary,  not  only  in*  a  moral,  but  religious 
point  of  view,  to  the  attainment  of  that  degree  of  perfection 
which  we  are  taught  it  is  in  the  power  of  every  one  to  attain. 
"  Ever  since  I  have  thought  at  all  on  the  subject,  it  has 
been  my  earnest  wish  to  be  admitted  a  member  of  the 
Church  of  Christ.  It  is  a  duty  which  I  cannot  but  think  is 
of  the  highest  importance,  both  as  it  is  fulfilling  the  last 
request  of  one  to  whom  we  owe  all  we  enjoy  here  or  hope 
for  hereafter,  and  as  it  continually  reminds  us  of  our  obli- 


2S  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

gatlons  to  obey  his  precepts,  tends  to  make  us  better,  and 
more  worthy  our  high  calling.  If  we  assume  the  name 
of  Christians,  and  obey  not  those  positive  commands  of  our 
Saviour  which  are  in  the  power  of  every  one  who  is  sincere 
how  can  we  expect  to  receive  a  continuance  of  his  favors  ? 
Fearing  I  was  too  young  fully  to  comprehend  the  use  and 
importance  of  so  solemn  a  rite,  I  have  delayed  saying  or 
doing  any  thing  about  it.  I  have  thought  much  on  it,  and 
summed  up  all  the  reasons  which  appeared  to  me  to  prove 
it  absolutely  necessary  to  our  happiness  and  well-being,  and 
all  the  objections  that  arose  in  my  mind  against  the  pro- 
priety of  young  persons  joining  in  it.-  I  then  read  every 
book  on  the  subject  I  could  meet  with,  and  found  in  none 
of  them  half  as  many  objections  as  I  had  raised,  and  very 
few  arguments  in  its  favor  which  I  had  not  thought  of.  Do 
not  think  it  has  made  me  think  better  of  myself  than  I  de- 
serve, —  far  from  it ;  it  made  me  feel  more  sensibly  my 
own  unworthiness,  when  compared  with  what  I  continually 
saw  I  ought  to  be.  Still,  as  I  could  not  give  up  all  thoughts 
of  it,  I  determined  to  appeal  to  you.  Tell  me,  my  dear 
Miss  C,  if  you  should  consider  it  a  violation  of  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  institution,  to  think  I  might  with  impunity  be  a 
member  ?  I  am  well  aware  of  the  condemnation  denounced 
on  those  who  partake  unworthily,  and  I  tremble  to  think 
how  liable  I  shall  be  to  fall  into  error  and  sin,  and  how 
much  greater  will  be  my  responsibility.  These  reflections 
have  hitherto  prevented  my  proposing  it  to  my  father  or 
any  one,  and  now  almost  make  me  fear  I  am  doing  wrong 
in  writing  to  you.  I  am  afraid  I  am  presumptuous,  and, 
did  I  not  view  it  rather  as  a  means  of  religion  than  the  end, 
I  should  hardly  suppose  there  were  many  who  could  say 
they  were  worthy  of  it.  I  cannot  think  there  is  any  mystery 
connected  with  it,  as  some  are  so  eager  to  prove,  and  its 
very  simplicity  renders  it  the  more  interesting  and  useful, 
and  increases  the  obligation  to  perform  it. 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  29 

*'  Forgive  me,  my  dear  Miss  C,  if  I  have  said  any  thing 
wrong,  and  correct  me  if  you  see  any  seeds  of  vice  in  me. 
Recollect  I  have  been  the  guardian  of  myself  too  long  not 
to  have  erred  very  much  in  my  ideas  of  every  thing ;  pity, 
and  make  me  better,  if  the  task  is  not  too  discouraging  ;  and 
be  assured,  the  purest  love  and  gratitude  of  which  I  am 
capable  will  be  the  sincere  offering  of  your  affectionate 
young  friend, 

"  Mary." 

The  self-scrutiny  and  humility  evinced  in  this 
note  prevented  any  hasty  action.  Mary  seems  still 
to  have  deliberated,  and  sought  all  the  light  and 
direction  she  could  obtain.  A  long  letter,  of  which 
we  give  a  portion,  to  her  true  friend,  N.  C.  S.,  in 
Boston,  shows  her  state  of  inquiry  and  progress. 

"  Hingham,  January  I3th,  1815. 
"  You  could  not  possibly  have  received  more  pleasure 
from  hearing  Mr.  Thacher's  sermon,  than  I  did  from  read- 
ing your  abstract  of  it.  Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory 
•  to  me,  who  still  doubted  whether  it  would  not  be  a  viola- 
tion of  the  sacredness  of  the  institution,  for  any  one  so 
thoughtless  and  liable  to  fall  into  sin  and  folly  to  join  in 
such  a  holy  offering,  with  the  good  and  faithful  of  the  earth. 
But  that  was  enough  to  convince  any  one  who  believed  the 
obligation  in  any  degree  to  be  great,  that  it  extended  to  young 
as  well  as  old,  and  would  be  an  effectual  means  of  turn- 
ing them  from  error  to  a  knowledge  of  truth,  would  make 
them  happy  here,  and  be  almost  a  security  of  it  hereafter. 
And  though  the  punishment  of  those  who  outwardly  profess 
themselves  disciples  of  Christ,  and  yet  devote  their  time 
and  thoughts  to  the  world,  is  inevitable,  I  cannot  but  think 
it  will  be  in  a  much  greater  degree  inflicted  on  those  who 
wholly  neglect  it,  particularly  when  once  convinced  of  its 
3* 


30  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

importance.  We  have  both  felt  the  power  which  only  the 
sight  of  others  performing  this  duty  has  had  on  our  minds ; 
what  then  will  it  be,  when  we  join  in  it  ourselves,  and  feel 
the  direct  influence  of  those  heavenly  rays,  which  enlighten 
the  Christian  at  the  altar  of  his  God,  and  guide  him  in  his 
dreary  progress  through  the  world  to  heaven  !  Surely  then 
we  should  not  hesitate  ;  now,  while  it  is  in  our  power,  it 
would  be  absolute  wickedness  to  neglect  the  performance 
of  such  a  reasonable  and  delightful  act  of  duty. 

"  Mary." 

But  one  doubt  now  remained  in  her  mind;  that 
caused  by  the  many  differences  among  believers, 
and  the  numerous  branches  of  the  Christian  Church. 
But  this  she  soon  answered  for  herself,  with  her 
usual  simplicity  and  largeness  of  view.  "  I  have 
considered  the  Church  of  Christ  to  be  one  body  dif- 
fused through  the  whole  world,  and  that  sects,  form, 
and  opinion  made  in  truth  no  essential  difference  ; 
—  that  all  the  various  denominations  of  Christians 
on  the  earth  were  united  in  one  spirit  and  one  mind, 
in  all  the  important  doctrines  of  religion."  Not  long 
after,  she  received  from  her  confiding  friend  an  ac- 
count of  similar  feelings  in  herself,  together  with  an 
excellent  note  from  the  Rev.  John  E.  Abbot,  encour- 
aging their  serious  purpose.     Mary's  reply  follows. 

"  Bingham,  April  \st,  1815. 

"I  do,  indeed,  my  dear  friend,  rejoice  with  you  in  the 
unexpected  and  happy  event  your  last  letter  informed  me 
of.  I  had  felt  all  your  doubts  and  fears  as  though  they 
were  my  own,  and,l  do  assure  you,  participated  in  your  joy 
with  the  same  sincerity.  How  much  reason  have  we  to  be 
grateful  for  this  instance  of  the  overruling  Providence  ! 
Does  it  not  sufficiently  prove,  that,  il  with   sincerity  and 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  31 

pureness  of  heart  we  undertake  to  perform  any  duty,  we 
may  rely  on  the  assistance  of  the  Holy  Spirit  to  guide  our 
steps,  and  to  cause  all  things  to  concur  to  render  it  easy 
and  delightful  ? 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  it  increased  my  own  hap- 
piness to  know  that  you,  too,  felt  happy ;  for  there  is  in 
the  sympathy  of  friends  something  that  increases  all  our 
pleasures  and  alleviates  all  our  pains.  It  is  to  this  I  owe 
half  that  I  enjoy  in  this  life,  and  without  it  wretched  must 
be  existence,  even  in  prosperity,  and  all  other  earthly 
blessings. 

"  I  believe  I  have  mentioned  often  to  you  the  desire  I  had 
of  becoming  one  of  the  church  here,  if  I  could  be  sure  of 
remaining  here  this  summer.  When  I  found  there  was  no 
doubt  of  that,  I  had  only  to  overcome  the  fears  which  a 
consciousness  of  weakness  and  liability  to  relapse  into 
former  coldness  still  kept  alive  in  my  mind.  Now  all 
have  subsided,  and  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  dangerous  to 
delay  so  important  a  service.  From  the  moment  I  had  de- 
cided what  to  do,  not  a  feeling  arose  which  I  could  wish  to 
suppress ;  conscious  of  pure  motives,  all  within  was  calm, 
and  I  wondered  how  I  could  for  a  moment  hesitate.  They 
were  feelings  I  never  before  experienced,  and  for  once  I 
realized  that  it  is  only  when  we  are  at  peace  with  ourselves 
that  we  can  enjoy  true  happiness. 

" I  think,  all  things  considered,  I  was  never  more 

happy  in  my  life.  It  was  a  bright,  clear  night,  and  the 
moon  which  rose  just  as  I  went  to  bed,  shining  full  on  me, 
seemed  to  reflect  the  tranquillity  of  my  soul,  and  appeared 
to  me  an  emblem  of  the  mild  light  that  was  just  dawning  on 
my  soul.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  actually  laid  awake  all 
night  out  of  pure  happiness. 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  any  more  of  my  feelings  at 
present.      On    Sunday  we  were  proposed,  and   the   next 


32  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

Sabbath  will   see   the   completion  of  all    my   hopes   and 
wishes  relating  to  myself  for, two  years  past. 

*'  I  cannot  at  present  write  more,  but  will  finish  this  next 
week. 

"  Mary." 

The  church  with  which  Mary  connected  herself 
was  the  Third  Church  in  Hingham,  under  the  pas- 
toral care  of  the  Rev.  Henry  Coleman,  with  whom 
she  speaks  of  delightful  interviews,  receiving  from 
him  the  best  instruction  and  counsel  at  that  im- 
portant period.  She  shows  at  the  same  time  her 
habit  of  thinking  for  herself,  as  well  as  her  liberal 
and  humble  spirit,  in  the  casual  remark,  "  Though  I 
could  not  agree  exactly  with  him  in  every  thing  he 
said,  as  they  were  not  essential  points  I  thought 
nothing  of  it,  and  received  his  advice  with  as  much 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  as  could  possibly  be." 
The  same  month  she  records  the  completion  of  her 
wishes  and  her  happiness. 

"  Last  Sunday  witnessed  the  accomplishment  of  my 
highest  desires  ;  for  I  joined  for  the  first  time  with  those 
who  compose  the  church  here,  in  commemorating  the 
death  of  our  blessed  Saviour.  The  feelings  it  excited  are 
not  easily  described,  and  as  you  will  so  soon  experience 
them,  you  will  thus  be  able  more  fully  to  conceive  of  them 
than  by  any  thing  I  could  say.  I  know  you  will  derive 
much,  very  much  satisfaction  and  happiness  from  it ;  and  I 
sincerely  pray  that  it  may  be  to  us  both  a  means  of  becom- 
ing more  like  its  heavenly  Founder,  and  finding  acceptance 
with  God  through  his  intercession.  I  wisli  you  could  have 
heard  our  dear  Mr.  C .  He  was  particularly  interest- 
ing and  affecting  ;  his  prayers,  too,  arc  better  than  any  I 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURK.  33 

ever  heard  (always  excepting  Mr.  Charming) ;  they  breathe 
more  of  the  true  spirit  of  Christian  huiniUty  than  is  com- 
monly to  be  found  in  these  days  of  pride. 

"  Mary." 

About  this  time  we  find  mention  of  an  incident 
which  appeared  then  of  little  importance,  but  to 
which  subsequent  events,  though  quite  remote,  have 
given  so  peculiar  an  interest,  that  it  seems  not  right 
to  omit  it.  Mary  Pickard,  still  a  school-girl,  saw  for 
the  first  time  the  individual  with  whom,  twelve  years 
after,  her  fortunes  were  to  be  connected  for  life,  but 
with  whom,  during  that  interval,  she  had  no  inter- 
course. Henry  "Ware,  then  a  theological  student 
at  Cambridge,  was  on  a  visit  to  Hingham,  his  native 
town,  and  passed  an  evening  at  Miss  Cushing's. 
Mary  does  not  appear  to  have  had  any  conversation 
with  him,  but  simply  saw  and  heard  him,  and  wrote 
to  her  friend  in  Boston  a  frank  account  of  the  opinion 
she  formed  of  him. 

"  Hingham,  April  9th,  1815. 

"  Again,  my  dear  N ,  I  resume  the  delightful  task  of 

writing  to  you,  which,  I  assure  you,  gives  me  a  degree  of 
pleasure  next  to  that  of  talking  with  you,  however  you  may 
judge  from  my  writing  so  seldom.  Since  Saturday  I  havfc 
experienced  a  pleasure  I  never  expected,  the  desire  of 
which  I  have  often  expressed  to  you.  I  have  seen,  heard, 
and  consequently  admired,  your  Exeter  friend,  H.  Ware;* 
and  though  his  errand  took  something  from  the  delight  his 
presence  would  otherwise  have  completed,  it  was  sufficient- 
ly great  for  the  safety  of  so  large  an  assembly  of  young 


*  He  spent  two  years  at  Exeter,  as  teacher  in  the  Academy. 


34  MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

ladies.  He  was  as  agreeable  as  he  could  possibly  be,  and 
fully  satisfied  all  the  expectations  you  had  raised  in  my 
mind.  He  spent  Sunday  evening  here,  and  as  ho  is  very 
fond  of  music,  and  it  is  usual  for  us  to  spend  a  part  of  this 
evening  in  singing,  we  sung  psalms  from  dusk  until  eight, 
when  he  was  obliged  to  leave  us.  He  joined  in  all,  and 
added  very  much  to  the  harmony  and  melody  of  our  little 
choir.  On  Monday  evening,  too,  he  was  here,  and  much 
increased  the  good  opinion  that  had  been  formed  of  him. 
I  thought  his  face  indicated  the  greatest  purity  and  good- 
ness ;  I  never  saw  a  more  benign,  delightful  expression  on 
any  face  before,  and  much  less  any  thing  like  it  in  a  gen- 
tleman. I  will  not,  however,  judge  any  one  by  their  face, 
particularly  as  I  have  not  proved  myself  a  good  physiog- 
nomist. Yet  I  cannot  help  being  in  some  measure  influ- 
enced by  it.  How  can  I  look  at  such  a  countenance  as 
his,  and  not  be  confident  that  there  Is  a  mind  within  corre- 
spondent to  it .''  There  is,  though,  a  want  of  energy  in  it, 
which  I  hope  is  not  in  his  character ;  but  it  is  sometimes 
the  case,  that  a  love  of  poetry,  and  habit  of  writing  it, 
effeminate  the  mmd  of  man,  while  they  only  render  more 
attractive  and  interesting  that  of  woman. 

"  He  came  for  his  sister  Harriet,  who  has  left  us,  very 
much  to  my  sorrow  as  well  as  that  of  all  the  family.  She 
has  an  uncommon  mind,  and  possesses  much  original 
genius  :  it  is  very  seldom  you  see  such  proofs  of  it  in  one 
so  young,  as  to  put  it  beyond  doubt,  that,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, love  of  literature  would  have  been  predomi- 
nant. She  is  a  great  loss  to  us,  and  to  myself  particularly 
so,  as  I  can  never  hope  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  cultivate 
her  acquaintance  as  I  should  wish.  But  I  must  be  content, 
and  if  I  can  only  have  the  power  of  appreciating  as  they 
deserve  those  friends  I  now  have,  I  think  it  will  be  my  own 
fault  if  I  am  not  happy. 


MENTAL    AND    MORAL    CULTURE.  35 

"  With  love  to  all  friends,  I  must  conclude  by  assuring 
vou  of  the  firm  affection  of  your  friend, 

«  M.  PlCKARD.'* 

This  was  written  the  same  month,  and  within  a 
few  days  of  the  date  of  that  remarkable  religious 
paper,  which  Henry  Ware  wrote  for  his  own  sacred 
use,  — "  To  be  opened  and  read  for  improvement, 
once  a  month,"  *  —  seen  by  no  other  eye,  probably, 
until  Mary  herself  opened  it,  as  his  widow !  From 
this  time  they  did  not  meet,  as  personal  acquaintance, 
until  the  year  of  their  marriage. 

*  Memoir  of  Heniy  Ware,  p.  83. 


IV. 

DISCIPLINE  AND  CHARACTER 

With  all  her  deep  happiness  and  cheerful  aspect, 
Mary  had  many  anxieties  and  trials  at  this  time. 
These  were  caused  by  her  father's  loss  of  property 
and  depression  of  spirits.  Mr.  Pickard  seems  never 
to  have  had  a  large  property,  but  was  connected 
with  one  of  the  best  firms  in  Boston,  and  enjoyed  a 
good  reputation  as  a  merchant  and  a  man.  In  what 
way  reverses  came  upon  him,  we  are  not  informed  ; 
but  the  period  of  which  we  speak,  just  at  the  close 
of  the  war  with  Great  Britain,  may  be  a  sufficient 
explanation.  Either  from  his  own  letters,  or  through 
others,  his  daughter  heard  of  his  losses,  and  had 
written  him  a  letter  which  we  do  not  find,  but  of 
which  the  following  reply  indicates  the  character. 

"  Boston,  April  17,  1815. 
"  I  have  just  opened  your  letter.  You  are  every  thing 
that  is  amiable  and  good  ;  it  is  not  possible  to  have  a  better 
child.  But  you  cannot  enter  into  my  feelings,  because  you 
know  not  my  situation.  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  any 
more  complaints,  if  I  can  help  it ;  I  will  only  tell  you  that 
1  have  done  nothing  that  should  make  you  ashamed  of  your 
father.  If  I  have  not  enough  to  pay  every  one  their  just 
dues,  it  is  owing  to  misfortune  and  events  that  I  could  not 
control.     No  one,  however,  except  the  estate,  is  likely  to 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  37 

suffer  by  me,  and  you  of  course  will  be  a  joint  loser ;  the 
whole,  I  hope,  will  not  be  much.  My  anxiety  is,  how  1 
shall  get  a  living,  —  what  I  shall  subsist  on.  Without  any 
capital,  I  can  do  no  business.     I  long  for  the  time  to  come 

when  I  shall  see  you  here !•  am  about  making 

inquiry  amongst  my  acquaintance  for  employment.  If  I 
succeed,  my  mind  will  be  easier ;  if  not,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

I  know  not.     I  had  a  long  talk  alone  with  cousin  N last 

evening.  She  tried  to  encourage  me  with  the  hope  of  being 
able  to  support  myself,  as  we  calculated  you  would,  after 
some  time,  have  enough  to  support  yourself  without  mental 
or  bodily  exertion.  Yet  I  know,  my  dear  child,  that  you 
would  exert  both  for  me  ;  but  how  much  more  satisfactory 
would  it  be  to  me  to  support  myself  while  I  am  able.  It  is 
not  the  change  of  circumstances,  but  the  dread  of  want,  tha 
depresses  me.  I  did  hope,  too,  that  you  would  have  been 
m  a  better  situation ;  but  you  have  a  mind  and  spirits,  I 
hope,  to  keep  your  heart  at  ease  ;  for  you  will  be  esteemed 
for  your  virtues.  You  see  I  cannot  help  writing  what  is 
uppermost  in  my  thoughts. 

"  Your  very  affectionate  father, 

"  M.  P." 

We  have  not  many  of  Mr.  Pickard's  letters,  but 
all  we  have,  even  those  in  which  he  writes  in  rather 
an  unreasonable  mood,  as  if  expecting  too  much  of 
this  endeared  and  devoted  daughter,  yet  contain  in- 
cidental expressions  which  show  his  exalted  opinion 
and  almost  respectful  regard  for  her,  as  well  as  a 
tender  and  grateful  affection.  He  speaks  of  having 
shown  one  of  her  letters  to  a  friend,  who  was  "  high- 
ly gratified  with  the  seriousness  and  piety  of  your 
disposition ;  but  she  did  not  need  that  proof  of  it ; 
and  in  the  troubles  and  vexations  of  this  world,  it  is 
4 


38  DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER. 

a  great  consolation  to  me  to  have  so  good  a  child, 
whom  I  look  forward  to  as  the  comfort  of  my  declin- 
ing years ;  you  know  how  much  your  letters  please 
me,  and  console  me  for  your  absence."  This  we 
can  understand  when  we  read  the  letter  which  fol- 
lows, probably  in  reply  to  that  which  we  have  given 
above. 

"  Bingham,  April  22,  1815. 
"I  did  not  receive  your  letter,  my  dear  father,  until 
Thursday  afternoon,  and  cannot  delay  for  a  moment  an- 
swering it.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  you  considered  me 
so  weak  as  to  bend  under  a  change  of  fortune  to  which  all 
are  liable,  and  which  does  not  affect  the  interest  of  my 
friends  or  myself,  while  a  self-approving  conscience  is  their 
support.  I  trust  nothing  which  can  befall  them  with  respect 
to  the  world  will  wholly  overcome  their  fortitude  and  con- 
fidence in  the  protection  and  care  of  a  Supreme  Being.  I 
can,  I  think,  enter  in  some  measure  into  your  feelings,  and 
believe  I  can  feel  as  you  do  with  regard  to  being  dependent 
on  others.  I  am  prepared  for  almost  any  trial ;  if  my 
ability  is  equal  to  my  desire  of  being  of  service  to  you  in 
misfortune,  I  do  not  fear  but  that  I  shall  be  able  to  support 
myself,  and  at  least  not  be  a  burden  to  you.  I  am  sorry 
you  think  so  much  of  my  situation.  I  shall  never  regret  the 
loss  of  indulgences  which  I  have  never  been  taught  to  con- 
sider as  essential  to  my  happiness,  and  which  do  not  in  any 
great  degree  conduce  to  it.  I  shall  be  content  in  any  cir- 
cumstances, while  I  know  you  have  not  brought  on  yourself 
calamity.  I  am  not  so  proud  that  I  should  feel  the  least 
repugnance  to  gaining  a  living  in  any  useful  employment 
whatever ;  I  feel  that  kind  of  pride  which  assures  me  that 
local  situation  will  not  disturb  my  peace  within,  and  with 
that  I  could   combat  almost  any  thing.     I  can  only  regret 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  39 

the  loss  of  property,  when  it  makes  me  an  encumbrance  to 
my  friends,  and  limits  my  power  of  communicating  good. 
As  to  the  former,  I  think,  while  I  can  possibly  do  it,  I  had 
better  remain  here,  rather  than  burden  any  of  my  friends 
with  my  company,  and  I  will  retrench  other  expenses  for 
the  sake  of  being  independent ;  for  I  do  not  think  that  any 
service  I  could  do  would  compensate  for  the  trouble  I 
should  give ;  and  with  regard  to  the  latter,  the  will  will  be 
present  with  me,  and  though  the  money  means  were  denied 
me,  I  do  not  despair  of  doing  good  in  some  way  or  other 
I  shall  do  very  well ;  my  only  anxiety  is  for  you,  lest  you 
give  up  hope  of  better  times,  and  thus  put  a  stop  to  the 
mainspring  of  human,  action.  I  cannot  but  regret  that 
what  belongs  to  the  estate  should  be  lost,  for  the  obligations 
we  are  under  already  to  the  family  are  more  than  can  ever 
be  repaid,  and  obligations  are  to  some  people  oppressive 
I  shall  see  you  soon,  and  will  then  make  some  arrange- 
ments. Till  then,  I  know  not  what  to  propose.  I  hope  to 
hear  from  you  soon.  And  do  write  in  better  spirits ;  it 
will  do  no  good  to  be  discouraged.  With  love  to  all,  I 
remain  your  affectionate  daughter, 

«*  Mary." 

Those  only  who  have  experienced  reverses,  or  have 
seen  parents  suffer  from  them  undeservedly,  know 
how  hard  it  is  to  sustain,  beneath  their  pressure,  a 
cheerful  and  buoyant  spirit.  We  can  moralize  upon 
the  comparative  worthlessness  of  this  world's  goods, 
and  call  poverty  and  pain  light  evils.  It  is  a  false 
view.  Poverty  and  pain  are  positive  and  great  evils. 
Sin  only  is  greater,  and  sin,  it  may  be,  is  as  often 
engendered  by  these  as  by  the  opposite  state  of 
health  and  affluence.  In  setting  forth  the  dangers 
of  prosperity,  we  are  not  to  forget  the  temptations 


40  DISCIPLINE    AND    CHAnACTER. 

and  conflicts  of  adversity.  Honor  to  the  man  or 
woman,  who  maintains  integrity  and  serenity  in  the 
hour  of  misfortune  I 

We  mean  not  to  intimate  that  the  pecuniary  per- 
plexities of  Mr.  Picltard  and  his  daughter  were  ex- 
treme. But  we  believe  them  to  have  been  enough 
to  test  the  power  of  character,  and  to  throw  a  deli- 
i  ate  and  difficult  duty  upon  a  daughter,  so  young, 
and  so  connected  with  friends  who  were  able  and 
willing  to  help,  but  on  whom  she  was  not  willing  to 
lean.  She  preferred  to  lean  upon  herself,  though  not 
in  unaided  strength.  Seldom  do  we  find  such  evi- 
dence of  early  and  entire  reliance  on  a  higher  Power. 
She  had  made  her  election.  With  the  deliberation 
and  firmness  of  mature  conviction,  she  had  given 
herself  to  God,  and  was  at  peace.  How  complete, 
though  quiet,  was  that  surrender,  and  how  full  and 
permanent  the  peace,  every  subsequent  year  of  her 
life  bore  witness.  And  there  were  those  who  saw 
this  in  the  beginning,  and  predicted  its  future  power. 
We  are  struck  with  the  confidence  expressed  by 
judicious  friends  in  Mary's  "  piety,"  —  a  word  of 
deeper  and  larger  import  than  belongs  to  many  be- 
ginners in  the  school  of  religion  and  life.  It  is  an 
incomparable  blessing,  when  a  faithful  and  experi- 
enced teacher  can  write  to  a  pupil  thus :  — 

"  Could  I  in  any  way  serve  you,  how  gladly  would  1  do 
it !  But  when  I  take  my  pen  to  write  you,  and  my  heart 
would  dictate  something,  which,  to  most  of  your  age  (par- 
ticularly when  so  early  deprived  of  a  mother's  care),  might 
be  useful,  I  am  deterred  by  the  thought  of  your  maturity  of 
mind,  your  well-i'egulated  affections,  and  correct  and  digni- 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  41 

fied  deportment.  This  is  not  flattery ;  you  know  me  too 
well,  I  hope,  to  believe  me  capable  of  that,  where  my  heart 
is  interested.  It  is  an  opinion  founded  on  a  long,  and  for 
some  time  close  observation.  May  you  feel  in  your  own 
bosom  the  reward  you  so  richly  deserve,  and  be  sensible 
of  those  joys  with  which  '  a  stranger  intermeddleth  not.' 
So  early  disciplined  in  the  school  of  affliction,  your  heart 
has  felt  the  need  of  consolation  which  the  world  has  not  to 
bestow ;  and  at  a  period  of  life  when  the  follies  and  vani- 
ties of  the  world  most  commonly  engross  us,  you  have  been 
led  to  an  attention  to  those  things  which  are  unseen  and 
eternal.  God  grant  that  you  may  be  induced  to  persevere 
in  the  path  of  piety,  to  reach  forward  continualfy  to  higher 
attainments,  nor  ever  rest  satisfied  till  you  have  attained 
the  glorious  prize  which  is  reserved  for  the  followers  of 

the  blessed  Jesus I  should  not,  to  many  of  your 

age,  write  so  much  on  so  serious  a  subject ;  but  I  believe 
you  have  a  feeling  persuasion  of  its  reality  and  importance, 
and  therefore  will  not  deem  me  intrusive." 

In  the  summer  of  1815,  Mary  left  Hingham,  and 
returned  to  her  home  in  Pearl  Street,  Boston,  where 
another  change  had  just  occurred  in  the  death  of  her 
grandfather,  James  Lovell.  This  left  her  grand- 
mother very  lonely,  and  for  the  remaining  two  years 
of  her  life  Mary  devoted  herself  to  her  care,  and 
ministered  to  her  wants,  with  the  same  assiduity 
and  affection  that  marked  her  devotion  in  her  moth- 
er's sickness.  Not  that  she  was  wholly  confined  to 
the  sick-room,  or  the  house.  Mrs.  Lo veil's  health 
varied,  and  allowed  occasional  visits  to  friends  in 
and  near  Boston,  for  several  weeks  together.  One 
of  these  visits  took  Mary  as  far  as  Northampton ; 
4* 


42  DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER. 

an  J  in  a  pleasant  letter  to  her  father  she  gives  a  full 
account  of  her  journey  thither,  a  very  different  mat- 
ter then  from  what  it  now  is.  Going  from  the  pres- 
ence of  sickness  and  sorrow  into  that  beautiful  re- 
gion, her  heart  expanded  with  joy  and  gratitude, — 
gratitude  to  God,  and  to  those  generous  friends 
whose  guest  she  was,  and  whose  hospitality  she 
describes  in  a  way  that  would  leave  no  doubt  to 
what  family  she  refers,  even  if  there  were  not  a 
direct  mention  of  one  whom  so  many  love  to  recall. 
''  Mr.  Lyman  is,  without  exception,  the  most  agree- 
able man  1  ever  met  with  ;  and  if  I  could  only  over- 
come feelings  of  resti'aint  which  his  infinite  superiority 
makes  me  have  before  him,  I  might  be  able  to  enjoy 
his  conversation  more.  I  may  overcome  it,  but  as 
yet  T  cannot,  and  therefore  fear  I  appear  stupid." 
This  diffidence  she  never  did  wholly  overcome,  and 
we  can  conceive  of  its  having  been  very  great,  at 
that  age.  Yet  it  seems  never  to  have  prevented  her 
from  going  forward  to  the  performance  of  any  duty, 
or  appearing  with  propriety  and  dignity  in  any  posi- 
tion. She  had  a  keen  relish  for  all  the  beauties  of 
nature,  and  no  less  for  the  refinements  and  pleasures 
of  society.  But  her  highest  enjoyment,  even  at  that 
age,  was  evidently  sought  and  found  in  the  company 
of  the  devout,  and  the  joys  of  religion.  Her  father 
gently  reproves  her,  in  one  of  his  letters,  for  indulg- 
ing too  much  in  "  sombre  "  thoughts,  and  talking  of 
"trials  presenting  themselves  everywhere."  But  it 
is  evident  that  it  was  to  his  own  trials  that  she  re- 
ferred, and  his  depression  may  have  extended  some- 
times, though  very  seldom,  to  her.     He  himself  saya 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  43 

of  this  state  of  feeling,  "  I  was  not  without  fear 
that  I  had  imparted  it  to  you,  which  would  grieve 
me  much." 

During  the  long  period  of  her  grandmother's  sick- 
ness, Mary  formed  a  new  attachment,  opening  to 
her  a  fountain  of  the  purest  enjoyment.  She  was  a 
constant  attendant  on  the  preaching  of  Dr.  Chan- 
ning.  When  a  child,  she  loved  to  go  to  his  church 
with  that  relative  and  devoted  friend  of  the  family, 
who,  though  of  the  same  age  as  her  mother,  still 
lives  to  mourn  the  loss  of  all  of  them.  Led  by  that 
hand,  which  was  to  her  as  the  hand  of  a  mother  to 
the  very  end  of  life,  (may  we  not  so  far  depart  from 
our  rule,  in  regard  to  the  living,  as  to  give  the  ven- 
erable name  of  Ann  Bent  ?)  Mary  listened  very  early 
and  intently  to  the  man  who  has  moved  multitudes 
of  every  age.  As  she  grew  up,  her  evident  and 
strong  preference  for  his  preaching  over  all  othei 
is  said  to  have  been  the  subject  of  "  a  little  affec- 
tionate bantering  on  her  mother's  part,"  while  to  her 
more  rigid  father  it  was  so  little  agreeable  as  to 
cause  at  times  some  trial  of  feeling  and  a  conflict 
of  duty.  But  where  duty  pertained  to  God  and  the 
whole  existence,  she  never  doubted  long.  Her  decis- 
ion was  taken  deliberately,  with  respect  and  gentle- 
ness, but  with  a  force  and  faith  that  never  wavered, 
and  never  failed  to  supply  strength  and  consolation 
in  her  varied  trials.  Indeed,  it  was  amid  trials,  as 
we  have  seen,  that  she  first  consecrated  herself  to 
Christ,  soon  after  her  mother's  death.  And  now  that 
she  was  daily  watching  the  decline  of  another  life 
very  dear  to  her,  at  the  bedside  of  her  aged  grand 


44  DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER. 

mother,  her  letters  are  chiefly  filled  with  accounts  o! 
her  vivid  interest  in  the  preaching-  she  hears,  and 
the  effect  it  has  upon  her  character.  Two  of  these 
letters  we  give  together,  as  relating  to  the  same  sub- 
ject, though  written  several  months  apart. 

"Boston,  Su7iday  Eveniny,  Sept.  15,  1816. 

"  How  frequently  have  I  heard  it  said,  that  we  never 

feel  the  true  happiness  of  having  a  friend  more  than  when, 

overwhelmed  with  feelings  it  cannot  control,  the  heart  seeks 

relief  in  the  sympathizing  bosom  of  that  Being  who  alone  can 

comprehend  them  ;  and  never,  my  dear  N ,  did  I  feel 

■  this  truth  more  than  at  the  present  moment,  never  did  I  feel 
more  eager  to  open-  to  your  view  my  whole  heart,  to  sliow 
you  the  emotions  excited  in  it,  for  I  feel  sensible  that  I  can- 
not describe  them.  It  will  not  surprise  you  that  Mr.  Chan- 
ning's  sermons  are  the  cause  ;  but  no  account  that  I  can 
give  could  convey  any  idea  of  them.  You  have  heard 
some  of  the  same  class  ;  they  so  entirely  absorb  the  feel- 
ings as  to  render  the  mind  incapable  of  action,  and  conse- 
quently leave  on  the  memory  at  times  no  distinct  impres- 
sion. That  in  the  morning  from  this  text,  '  He  that  for- 
saketh  not  all  that  he  hath,  cannot  be  my  disciple,'  was 
calculated  more  than  any  thing  I  had  then  heard,  to  exalt 
the  Christian  character  ;  but  that  this  afternoon  was  as  if 
an  angel  spoke,  —  'Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and 
are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.  Learn  of  me, 
for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  of  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  to 
your  souls.'  Happiness,  or,  as  it  is  here  expressed,  '  rest 
to  the  soul,'  does  not,  it  is  evident,  depend  on  our  situation, 
as  may  be  proved  by  a  slight  view  of  the  condition  of  man- 
kind in  general.  We  see  them  constantly  aspiring  to  some- 
thing beyond  what  they  possess,  but  which,  when  attained, 
adds  not  to  their  peace,  but  rather  increases  their  discon- 
tent  


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  45 

'*  I  dcubt  whether  I  have  succeeded  in  giving  you  any 
idea  of  what  Mr.  Channing's  sermon  really  contained,  as  I 
cannot  remember  any  thing  of  it  but  the  impression  it  made 
on  my  feelings,  and  I  have,  I  find,  given  you  rather  a 
transcript  of  them  than  any  of  his  original  ideas,  as  you 
will  readily  perceive.  The  object  of  it,  however,  was  to 
prove  that  the  only  real  happiness  to  be  enjoyed  in  the 
world  was  to  be  found  in  that  peace  of  mind  which  a  true 
and  li/ely  faith  in  the  wisdom  and  mercy  of  God  neces- 
sarily inspires  in  the  Christian,  and  without  which  all  the 
pleasures  this  world  can  give  will  fail  to  convey  to  the 
heart  even  one  transient  gleam  of  real  enjoyment.  Could 
you  only  have  been  here,  you  would,  I  know,  have  been 
much  benefited  by  it ;  but  you  could  not  feel  it  as  I  did,  for 
you  do  not  so  much  require  it.  My  reason  and  conscience 
have  always  told  me  that  it  was  not  right  to  let  any  of  the 
trials  I  have  met,  and  still  meet  with,  destroy  for  a  moment 
my  peace  ;  and  though  they  have  sometimes  conquered  my 
weaker  feelings,  yet  there  are  times  when  I  find  my  own 
strength  so  insufficient  that  I  am  almost  tempted  to  doubt 
whether  it  be  in  my  power  to  attain.  This  morning,  I 
felt  more  than  ever  my  weakness,  from  having  had  a  long 
and  unsuccessful  struggle  the  whole  of  yesterday  with  my- 
self. That  the  precious  privileges  this  day  has  atTorded  me 
are  not  lost  upon  me,  I  hope  to  prove  in  the  day  of  future 
trial.     Forgive  my  egotism,  but  I  know  to  whom  I  write. 

"  Mary." 

"  You  said  to  me,  as  we  were  returning  from  meeting  to- 
day, in  answer  to  my  observation  that  '  I  had  been  depend- 
ing on  this  day  during  the  whole  week,  and  had  unexpect- 
edly realized  all  the  feelings  I  anticipated,'  that  you,  too, 
had  expected  much,  thinking  that  Mr.  Channing  would  give 
us  the  sermon  he  did.     I  have  often  thought  that  the  very 


40  DISCIPLINE    AND    ClIARACTER. 

great  pleasure  we  take  in  hearing  him  preach  has  given  us 
other  feelings  and  motives   in    our  attendance  on   church 
than  ought  to  be  allowed  by  the  devout  Christian.   The  good 
which  is  to  be  obtained  from  one  of  his  sermons  particu- 
larly is  indeed  a  great  object,  and  sufficient  to  induce  us  to 
attend  the  hearing  of  them  whenever  there  is  an  opportuni- 
ty ;  but  in  our  eagerness  to  hear  the  sermon,  to  admire  it, 
and  endeavor  to  improve  by  it,  the  original  intention  of  pub- 
lic worship,  I  fear,  is  in  a  manner  lost  on  us.    Do  we,  when 
we  go  to  the  house  of  God,  feel  that  we  are  as  it  were  en- 
tering his  more  immediate  presence  ?     He  is,  it  is  true, 
present  with  us  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times ;  but  in  the 
world  it  is  not  required,  neither  is  it  practicable,  that  our 
whole  thoughts  should  be  devoted  to  any  one  subject ;  but 
when  we  go  to  the  house  of  worship,  is  it  not  that  we  may, 
by  shutting  out  of  our  minds  the  world  and  all  that  it  con- 
tains, give  to  the  Lord  of  the  Sabbath  every  thought  ?     Was 
it  not  for   this  end  he  gave  us  the  day,  and  renews  our 
strength  every  week  ?     We  are  called  together  to  worship, 
not  merely  with  our  lips,  but  to  unite  every  thought  and 
feeling  in  adoration.     It  is  a  privilege  thus  to  be  enabled  to 
call  our  minds  entirely  from  the  cares  and  troubles  of  life  ; 
it  gives  to  those  who  are  oppressed  by  them  some  idea  of 
heaven,  when  all  the  trials  which  now  torture  them  will  be 
for  ever  forgotten  ;  and  to  all  it  should  be  esteemed  a  high 
and  holy  privilege,  setting  aside  the  delightful  instruction 
we  receive,  thus  to  hold  communion  with  Heaven,  for  I  can 
compare  it  to  nothing  else.     It  seems  often  to  me,  while  in 
the  hour  of  prayer  I  give   myself  up   to  the   thought  of 
heaven,  as  though  I  had  in  reality  left  the  world,  and  was 
enjoying  that  which  is  promised  to  the  Christian.     I  fear, 
however,  these  feelings  are  too  often  delusive  ;  we  substitute 
the  love  of  holiness  for  the  actual  possession,  and  often  de- 
ceive ourselves.    But  if  we  can  keep  our  reason  unclouded. 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  47 

we  have  nothincr  to  fear  from  feeling  too  much.  1  would 
not  be  understood  to  mean,  that  the  delightful,  improving 
preaching  we  are  in  the  habit  of  hearing  is  not  a  good  mo- 
tive for  carrying  us  to  meeting  ;  but  it  is  not  enough,  if  it  be 
the  only  one  ;  if  the  happiness  of  an  unreserved  devotion 
of  thought  to  God  is  not  sufficiently  great  to  induce  us  to 
seek  every  opportunity  of  enjoying  it,  I  fear  the  true,  vital 
piety,  which  is  the  only  support  of  i*eligion,  is  imperfectly 
gained  by  us. 

"  I  have  not  time  to  write  more.  I  doubt  if  I  have  ex- 
plained myself  intelligibly,  but  more  of  this  at  some  future 
period.  I  presume  there  is  an  appearance  of  vanity  in 
one  paragraph,  which  I  will  some  time  explain. 

"  Mary." 

This  fervid  religious  interest  and  enjoyment  seems 
to  have  filled  her  heart,  and  absorbed  her  thoughts, 
more  and  more,  until,  in  the  following  summer,  it 
led  to  a  personal  interview  with  Dr.  Channing,  of 
the  most  interesting  kind,  to  be  described  only  in  her 
own  words. 

'' Boston,  July  10,  1817. 
"  There  is  a  certain  state  of  feeling,  or  I  may  now  say 
passion,  in  which  the  heart  must  either  find  relief  in  utter- 
ance, or  burst ;  when  all  the  powers  of  mind  and  body  are 
suspended,  and  thought,  feeling,  sensation,  are  all  centred 
in  one  sole  object.  It  is  at  such  moments  as  these  that  we 
feel  the  true  value  of  a  friend  who  will  submit  patiently  to 
our  detail,  and  sympathize  in  all.  1  have  just  had  a  long 
—  (I  do  not  know  what  to  call  it)  —  with  our  dear  minister. 
You  know  how  long  I  have  wished,  yet  dreaded  it.  That  I 
should  ever  have  dreaded  it  appears  now  a  most  astonish- 
ing  fact,  except  that  I  knew  it  would  humble  me  to  the  dust. 
And  why  should  I  not  be  so  humbled  ? 


48  DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  It  chanced  that  grandma  was  too  unwell  to  see  him  ;  and 
I,  though  not  in  the  most  composed  state  of  mind  that  can 
be  imagined,  was  to  sit  down  alone  with  him,  fully  deter- 
mined to  improve  the  opportunity  and  say  all  that  I  had  so 
long  wished.  I  put  on  as  collected  an  appearance  as  could 
possibly  be  required,  and,  trembling  at  the  very  centre  of 
my  heart,  met  him  with  a  smile  of  joy.  Indifferent  subjects 
soon  entirely  subdued  all  kind  of  internal  embarrassment, 
(external,  I  did  not  permit,)  when,  to  my  great  annoyance, 
C walked  in !  O  that  I  could  have  rendered  him  in- 
visible, —  deaf,  dumb,  —  any  thing,  for  the  time  being ! 
But  patience  triumphed  ;  I  contrived  at  last  to  let  him  un- 
derstand that  I  wished  him  far  away.  He  took  the  hint, 
but  when  he  rose  to  go,  Mr.  Channing  did  so  also !  I  could 
not  but  detain  him.  How  I  did  it,  or  what  followed  on  my 
part,  I  know  not;  I  heard  all  he  said,  I  laid  every  word 
carefully  aside  in  my  mind  to  be  enjoyed  at  some  future 
period,  but  how  foolish,  how  weak,  how  every  thing  irra 
tional  /  was,  I  cannot,  dare  not,  think.  I  told  him  as  well 
as  I  could,  with  what  views  and  feelings  I  presumed  to 
deviate  from  the  path  in  which  I  had  been  led  by  my 
parents,  what  he  had  done  for  me,  and  what  I  hoped  to  do 
for  myself.  I  could  not  have  been  intelligible,  but  I  will  not 
regret  that  I  attempted,  though  I  could  not  succeed.  I  am 
relieved  by  what  he  said  of  many  unpleasant,  oppressive 
feelings.  I  felt  that  I  was  detaining  him,  or  I  might  have 
been  rather  more  collected.  What  a  state  has  he  left  me 
in  !  O,  could  I  for  ever  preserve  the  remembrance  of 
what  now  fills  my  heart,  could  I  ever  feel  as  I  now  do,  that 
I  am  one  of  the  least  of  all  beings,  capable  of  being  better 
but  shamefully  neglecting  my  best  interests,  awfully  re- 
sponsible for  the  inestimable  privileges  I  enjoy,  but  wholly 
unmindful  of  them. 

"  Dearest  N ,  I  am  wrong  to  impose  on  your  patience 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  49 

but  I  am  too  selfish  to  resist.  Forgive  this  sentence.  I  do 
not  doubt  your  interest,  but  I  may  talk  too  long.  This  is  not 
the  fervor  of  sudden  enthusiasm  ;  no,  I  have  long  felt  my 
sinfulness,  but  the  excitement  of  talking  to  Mr.  Channing 
has  made  me  now  utter  it.  Give  me  your  prayers,  give 
me  your  advice,  assist  me  in  elevating  my  heart  to  higher 
objects,  purer  joys,  than  this  world  can  give.  I  love  it  too 
well ;  I  want  the  severing  hand  of  trial  to  rend  asunder 
the  thousand  evil  passions  which  connect  me  with  it. 

"  I  have  scribbled  this  at  your  desk ;  this  quiet  retreat  has 
calmed  me.  It  is,  perhaps,  fortunate  that  you  were  not  at 
home,  except  that  you  would  have  been  saved  this  fine 
specimen  of  what  an  egotist  can  write.  O  dear,  how 
weak  I  am  !  excitement  is  so  new  to  me,  that  it  almost  de- 
prives me  of  the  use  of  my  understanding,  or  I  should  not 
thus  betray  myself.  I  know  not  what  I  am  coming  to ;  I 
was  very  foolish  yesterday  ;  I  have  been  worse  to-day.  Do 
come  and  see  me  to-morrow  and  lend  me  a  little  sense,  or 
if  you  cannot  spare  it,  exercise  it  yourself  over  the  mind  of 
your  senseless  friend, 

"  Mary." 

During  this  season  of  peculiar  experience,  Mary 
sought  the  confidence,  and  enjoyed  the  sympathy, 
not  only  of  the  one  friend  to  whom  the  last  letters 
were  written,  but  also  of  her  late  instructors  in  Hing- 
ham.  The  correspondence  between  them  is  of  the 
most  confiding  character,  and  shows  a  mutual  re- 
spect and  sense  of  obligation  in  pupil  and  teacher. 
"  Talk  not  of  gratitude,  my  dear  Mary,"  the  latter 
writes ;  "  has  not  every  kindness  we  have  ever  had 
it  in  our  power  to  show  you  been  more  than  can- 
celled by  your  unremitting  assiduities  to  serve  and 
please  us  ?  The  uniform  disposition  you  have  ever 
5 


50  DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER. 

shown  to  promote  the  ease  and  happiness  of  all 
around  you,  will  long  remain  a  sweet  remembrance 
of  one  whose  image  is  connected  in  my  mind  with 
every  softer  virtue,  accompanied  by  that  strength  of 
mind  which  would  enable  you,  if  called  upon,  to  sus- 
tain uncommon  trials.  No,  I  shall  not,  I  cannot,  be 
disappointed  in  you,  my  dear  young  friend ;  you 
will  be  all  that  your  opening  character  now  prom- 
ises, because  you  have  built  on  a  sure  foundation. 
If  my  life  is  spared,  I  anticipate  much  pleasure  from 
the  continuation  of  a  friendship  thus  commenced. 
May  it  be  increased  and  strengthened  while  we  so- 
journ together  on  earth,  and  may  we  have  the  hap- 
piness of  exciting  each  other  to  a  higher  standard 
of  excellence  than  is  generally  adopted  by  the  world, 
and  thus  be  prepared  for  the  society  of  those  pure 
and  holy  beings  we  hope  hereafter  to  join."  These 
expressions  of  confidence  and  encouragement  were 
probably  induced  by  the  trying  circumstances  in 
which  Mary  was  then  placed,  partly  from  her  father's 
misfortunes  and  feeble  health,  and  partly  from  the 
weight  of  her  responsibilities  in  a  household  where 
there  was  not  only  sickness,  but  other  and  sorer 
trials.  She  went  very  little  into  society,  and  was 
thrown  entirely  upon  her  ow^n  resources,  in  the  midst 
of  arduous  and  delicate  duties.  Some  of  her  strug- 
gles, and  the  sources  of  her  peace,  are  intimated  in 
the  following  letters  to  Miss  Gushing. 

'^  Boston,  June  19,  1817. 
"  As  I  can  neither  see  you  nor  hear  from  you,  my  dear 
Miss  Gushing,  I  must  write  you,  if  it  be  only  to  say  how 
much  I  think  of  and  desire  to  see  you.     I  know  too  well 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  51 

that  I  do  not  deserve  any  indulgence  from  you,  but  there  ia 
something  so  solitary,  and  at  times  almost  overpowering,  in 
the  idea  that  those  whom  we  have  best  loved,  with  whom 
we  have  passed  happy  hours  of  intercourse  and  sympathy, 
are,  though  still  dear,  divided  from  us,  not  perhaps  by  dis- 
tance, but  by  circumstances  which  we  cannot  control,  that 
I  am  almost  tempted  to  repine  that  such  must  be  our  situa- 
tion. You  will,  I  know,  be  ready  to  ask  why  I  have  so 
neglected  the  only  means  in  my  power  of  continuing  that 
intercourse  .''  I  would  not  complain  of  it,  but  I  have  little 
time,  and  so  many  occupations  which  the  call  of  duty  bids 
me  not  neglect,  that  I  seldom  write  to  any  one,  and  always 
in  so  much  haste  that  I  should  be  ashamed  to  send  such 
epistles  to  you.  Beside  all  this,  I  have  so  little  intercourse 
with  the  world,  or  those  in  it  in  whom  I  think  you  would  be 
interested,  that  I  must,  from  a  dearth  of  ideas  in  this  poor 
brain,  write  almost  wholly  of  self,  the  most  odious  and 
wearisome  of  all  topics.  But  this  very  isolation  makes  me 
depend  so  much  on  every  little  iota  of  external  excitement, 
that  I  should  be  satisfied,  or  rather  content,  with  any  thing  in 

the  form  of  a  letter  you  would  find  time  to  give  me 

"  I  have  felt,  and  I  believe  have  expressed  to  you,  or 

Miss  P ,  a  kind  of  discontent  sometimes^  operating  on 

my  mind  at  the  want  of  opportunity  to  become  what  I 
have  vainly  thought  I  might  be.  But  this  is  all  over,  and  I 
am  satisfied  that  1  must  be  content  with  a  very  low  degree 
in  the  scale  of  knowledge.  But  I  trust  I  may  be  good, 
though  never  great,  and  am  confident  that  the  peculiar 
situation  in  which  I  am  placed  is  one  more  calculated  for 
me  than  any  I  could  choose  for  myself.  Trial  is  necessary 
to  me,  and  I  am  happy  in  it,  except  when  I  am  conscious  it 
is  not  improved  as  it  should  be.  It  is  not  for  us,  who  have 
so  many  blessings,  to  murmur  if  our  faith  is  sometimes  put 
to  the  test ;  did  we  view  things  aright,  what  now  seems 


52  DISCIPLINE    A^'D    CHARACTER. 

iudgmcnt  is  in  truth  mercy.  What  should  we  be,  were  wo 
not  sometimes  reminded  of  our  sins  and  the  weakness  of 
our  minds  ?  Surely,  then,  whatever  may  be  the  trials 
which  bring  us  to  a  true  sense  of  our  accountability  to  our 
Father  in  heaven,  they  are  the  kindest  expressions  of  his 
goodness.  I  never  could  have  any  gloomy  views  of  religion, 
and  the  more  experience  I  have  of  its  cheering  influences 
in  the  hearts  of  its  votaries,  the  more  I  am  convinced  that 
it  is  the  only  sure  guide  to  happiness  even  in  this  world  ; 
how  much  more  in  another ! 

"  You  will  forgive  me  for  writing  you  just  what  happened 
to  occupy  my  mind.  It  is  an  indulgence  that  I  cannot  re- 
sist, to  be  able  to  communicate  a  few  of  my  feelings  and 
thoughts.     I  fear  you  will  think  I  impose  too  much  on  your 

goodness. 

"  Mary." 

"Boston,  August  20,  1817. 
"  My  dear  Miss  Gushing  :  — 

"  There  are,  I  believe,  moments  in  the  lives  of  all  human 
beings,  when,  from  some  cause  or  other,  the  heart  is  sad- 
dened by  a  feeling  of  peculiar  loneliness,  which,  though 
perhaps  rather  a  disease  of  the  imagination  than  the  eflect 
of  real  circumstances,  is  nevertheless  irresistible.  I  have 
felt  this  in  the  gayest  period  of  my  life,  and  it  is  not  strange 
that  I  should  now  often  experience  it.  Leading  a  perfectly 
monotonous  existence,  my  resources  of  animal  spirits  are 
not  entirely  sufficient  to  supply  the  call  of  duty  and  the 
hour  of  solitude  too.  And  when  evening  closes,  and  my 
beloved  charge  is  laid  peacefully  to  rest,  excitement  ceases, 
and  I  am  thrown  on  myself  for  pleasure.  Then  it  is  that  I 
long  to  be  with  friends,  whom  1  can  only  visit  in  imagina- 
tion ;  then  I  long  to  annihilate  distance,  and  talk  with  you. 
It  is,  I  know,  imposing  on  your  goodness  to  attempt  to 
write  you  under  the  influence  of  such  feelings,  but  it  is  an 


DJSCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER.  53' 

indulgence  I  can  hardly  resist,  convinced  as  I  am  that, 
when  you  are  assured  it  is  a  relief  to  a  poor  solitary,  your 
benevolent  heart  will  pardon  me.  I  would  not  convey  that 
I  am  unhappy  in  this  situation.  O,  no!  —  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  being  '  pleased,  and  yet  sad ' ;  and  though  some- 
times 

'  The  heart  will  feel,  the  tear  will  steal, 
For  auld  lang  syne  sae  dear,' 

yet  I  rejoice  with  joy  unspeakable  that  the  present  is  still 
filled  with  many  privileges  and  pleasures,  and  that  I  can 
with  perfect  trust  refer  the  future  to  Him  who  appointeth 
all  things  in  mercy.  I  wish  most  sincerely  I  could  com- 
municate something  interesting  to  you,  to  redeem  my  mis- 
erable letters  from  the  charge  of  perfect  egotism,  but  I  live 
so  wholly  out  of  the  sphere  of  the  interesting  part  of  the 
world,  that  I  am  as  ignorant  of  all  that  passes  within  it  as 
those  who  know  not  that  it  exists.  It  is  this  reason  which 
has  often  withheld  me  from  writing  you  when  indeed  I 
wished  for  my  own  sake  to  indulge  in  it,  and  I  think  you 
will  be  fully  convinced  of  the  wisdom  of  my  forbearance 

after  the  perusal  of  this. 

«  M.  L.  P." 

And  now  another  trial  impended,  to  be  followed 
by  other  and  important  changes  in  her  condition  of 
life.  In  the  autumn  of  this  year  her  grandmother 
died.  For  the  event  itself,  so  long  expected  and 
not  to  be  lamented,  she  was  prepared.  But  some 
of  its  circumstances  were  unusually  trying,  and  she 
well  knew  that  its  consequences  might  be  still 
more  sad.  Yet  how  little  these  considerations  af- 
fected her,  in  comparison  with  the  moral  aspects 
and  spiritual  lessons  of  the  change,  may  be  seen  in 
her  own  account  of  the  last  sickness,  to  N.  C.  S. 
5* 


54 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTEH. 


"Boston,  Sunday  Niyht,  October  12,  1817. 

"  You  have  so  long  indulged  my  selfish  propensity  of 
communicating  to  you  every  feeling  that  chances  to  be 
excited  in  my  heart,  that  I  find  it  difficult,  when  under  the 
influence  of  any  peculiar  emotion,  to  resist  the  ever-present 
desire  to  impart  all  to  you.  But  this  would  be  the  height 
of  folly  and  weakness,  and  I  therefore  contend  against  it 
with  all  my  powers.  There  are,  however,  certain  kinds  of 
feeling  of  such  a  doubtful  nature,  that  the  agency  of  some 
external  power  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  proper  man- 
agement of  them.  Of  this  nature,  I  am  persuaded,  are 
those  by  which  I  am  now  overpowered  ;  and  lest  I  should 
be  too  much  led  away  by  them,  I  must  beg  your  assist- 
ance in  ascertaining  their  origin  and  tendency.  This  may 
seem  too  systematic  for  any  one  who  feels  much,  but  the 
violence  of  the  tempest  has  passed,  and  that  deadly  calm 
which  always  succeeds  the  raging  of  the  elements  natu- 
rally inclines  the  mind  to  thought  and  reflection. 

"  I  have  lived  for  the  last  few  months  in  the  hourly  con- 
templation of  a  most  striking  picture  of  the  end  of  human 
life,  the  termination  of  all  its  joys  and  sorrows,  the  anni- 
hilation of  its  hopes  and  wishes.  This  could  not  fail  to  im- 
press with  sadness  a  mind  in  full  possession  of  its  powers 
of  enjoyment,  and  for  a  time  to  give  it  almost  a  disgust 
of  all  those  pleasures  and  pursuits  which  must  so  soon 
fail  before  the  dim  eye  and  feeble  energies  of  approaching 
age.  It  had,  in  a  great  degree,  this  effect  on  me  ;  for  the 
moments  have  been  when  I  would  willingly  have  surren- 
dered life  rather  than  live  in  the  expectation  of  such  an 
end,  —  to  outlive  the  ability  to  engage  in  its  duties.  I  now 
tremble  at  the  thought  of  ever  having  suffered  such  feelings 
for  a  moment  to  possess  my  mind.  Continued  and  deep 
reflection  on  the  object  of  all  this,  the  comparative  nothing- 
ness of  every  thing  in  this  world,  the  hopes  and  prospects 


DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER,  55 

ot  another  and  better,  meditation  on  the  spiritual  life,  and 
occasional  experience  of  the  real  happiness  of  that  elevation 
of  soul  above  earthly  things  which  religion  alone  can  im- 
part, have  overcome  this  melancholy,  and  sometimes  pro- 
duced almost  a  feeling  of  triumph.  I  have  this  evening 
been  almost  overwhelmed  with  a  variety  of  emotions,  of 
which  this  was  the  most  prominent.  Grandma  has  thought 
herself  dying,  and  has  been  conversing  with  me  on  her 
approaching  change  with  that  most  heavenly  calmness 
which  those  only  who  rely  on  the  mercy  of  God,  through 
the  merits  of  his  Son,  can  experience  at  this  trying  hour. 
This,  together  with  joining  in  prayer  with  her  that  we 
might  all  welcome  this  hour  as  she  did,  and  her  final  part- 
ing with  all  in  the  house,  has  elevated  my  mind  so  much 
above  this  transitory  scene,  that  I  can  scarcely  believe  I 
shall  ever  be  so  weak  as  again  to  be  engrossed  by  it.  I 
cannot  describe  the  state  of  my  mind.  I  never  felt  so  be- 
fore, though  I  have  often  imagined  that  others  have.  It  is 
almost  a  kind  of  transport  at  the  thought  that  this  mortal 
shall  put  on  immortality,  that  there  is  within  us  an  ethereal 
spark  which  can  never  be  extinguished  or  grow  dim,  capa- 
ble of  rising  superior  to  the  pains  and  weakness  which  bend 
these  frail  bodies  to  the  ground.  O,  it  is  a  joy  unspeak- 
able !  Viewed  through  this  medium,  death  loses  its  sting, 
and  the  idea  of  a  glorious  immortality  alone  presents  itself 
with  the  view  of  its  approach. 

"  But  alas  !  I  can  place  no  dependence  on  the  continuance 
of  my  feelings  beyond  the  moment  that  excites  them.  My 
life  is  a  mere  vision ;  the  world  in  which  I  act  has  no  con- 
nection with  that  in  which  1  think.  My  pleasure,  my  hap- 
piness, is  so  far  independent  of  the  objects  around  me,  that 
I  can  hardly  associate  them  together.  Having  little  else  to 
do  than  meditate,  I  exist  almost  in  imagination,  and  com- 
municate so  little  with  others  on  the  subject  of  my  thoughts, 


56  DISCIPLINE    AND    CHARACTER. 

that  it  seems  like  living  two  beings ;  the  greater  part  of  my 
time  is  passed  in  this  ideal  world,  and  I  am  consequently 
unfitted  to  mix  in  the  real  one  in  which  I  am  placed.  This 
is  a  misfortune  and  a  fault.  Which  has  the  greatest  share 
of  blame  ?  It  is  most  unfavorable  to  true  Christian  humili- 
ty ;  for,  as  Mr.  Channing  says  of  the  effects  of  a  diseased 
imagination,  '  We  feel  superiority  to  the  world  in  ascend- 
ing the  airy  height,  and  pride  ourselves  in  this  refinement 
of  the  mind.  After  arraying  ourselves  in  the  robes  of 
glory,  we  cannot  take  the  lowly  seat  which  Christianity 
assigns  us.'  Thus,  then,  although  this  elevation  above  the 
objects  of  this  vam  world  may  be  a  right  spirit  when  it 
rises  from  the  pure  flow  of  real  piety,  if  it  be  only  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  moment,  which  rises  for  a  time  and  then 
vanishes  away,  an  abstract  theory  which  would  not  be 
practised  upon  in  the  hour  of  temptation,  it  had  better 
never  have  been.  When  we  have  once  been  imposed  on, 
ue  know  not  what  to  trust.  All  my  purposes  of  goodness 
ijjid  high  resolves  are  as  yet  but  theories,  which  I  fear  I 
should  never  put  in  practice  should  temptation  assail  me. 
O,  I  dare  not  be  thus  happy  ! 

"  Mary." 


V. 

CHANGES  AT  HOME. 

The  first  change  consequent  upon  the  death  of 
old  IVIrs.  Lovell,  was  the  leaving  of  the  house  in 
Pearl  Street.  This,  to  Mary,  was  not  a  small  mat- 
ter. It  was  not  the  mere  moving  of  furniture,  nor 
the  living  in  one  street  rather  than  another,  of  the 
same  town.  It  was  the  loss  of  the  earliest  and  only 
HOME  that  she  had  ever  known ;  and  none  are  to  be 
envied  who  cannot  enter  into  the  feelings  which 
such  an  event  must  awaken  in  a  heart  like  hers. 
With  little  of  the  romantic  in  her  nature,  and  as 
great  i^idependence  of  the  merely  local  and  external 
as  is  often  seen,  her  love  of  family  and  early  friends, 
her  memory  of  childhood  and  all  its  associations,  the 
very  changes  and  sufferings  which  had  made  so  large 
a  part  of  her  life,  were  all  identified  with  "  that 
house  "  as  the  place  of  their  birth,  and  bound  her  to 
it  by  the  strongest  chords.  "Within  a  month  of  the 
day  of  her  grandmother's  death,  she  wrote  her  last 
letter  there,  which,  with  the  first  that  was  written 
out  of  the  house,  will  show  what  she  felt,  and  why. 

"  Boston,  November,  1817. 
*'  It  is  with  many  new  and  peculiar  feelings  that  I  attempt 
to  write  you  for  the  last  time  from  this  blessed  spot,  ren- 


58  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

dered  doubly  sacred  to  me  from  having  been  the  scene  of 
that  intimacy  which  ever  has  been,  and  I  trust  ever  will  be, 
one  of  the  purest  sources  of  happiness  which  it  has  pleased 

my  Heavenly  Father  to  bestow  on  me It  has  been  one 

of  the  happy  effects  of  the  trials  which,  during  the  last  few 
years,  have  fallen  to  my  lot,  to  produce  a  more  unreserved 
acquaintance  between  us  than  under  any  other  circum- 
stances could  have  been  effected.  I  bless  them  in  all  their 
influences,  but  particularly  in  this,  that  they  have  brought 
me  the  knowledge  and  affection  of  such  a  friend.  I  should 
blush  at  the  recollection  of  the  numberless  follies,  weak- 
nesses, and  sins  which  this  frail  heart  has  discovered  to 
you,  but  I  wish  you  to  know  me  entirely  ;  the  candid  con- 
fession of  faults  is  the  greatest  proof  of  confidence  I  could 
give.  But  that  delightful  intercourse  which  has  so  much 
conduced  to  this  must  for  a  time  be  broken  off,  perhaps 
never  again  to  be  renewed  in  this  changing  world.  Change 
of  situation  will  necessarily  preclude  the  possibility  of  that 
continued  intercourse  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  ha3 
been  the  joy  of  the  past.  I  cannot  admit  the  idea  that  this 
will  weaken  the  bonds  that  unite  us,  much  less  can  I  think 
it  will  break  them.  But  I  have  been  the  creature  of  situa- 
tion ;  my  character  (if  any  thing  I  possess  can  be  entitled 
to  the  name)  has  been  moulded  by  circumstances  peculiar 
in  their  nature,  and  which  will  soon  cease  to  exist.  What 
I  shall  be  in  the  wide  world  into  which  I  am  going  to  enter, 
I  know  not.  I  hope,  yet  fear  to  change.  Without  a  guide 
to  lead  me  in  the  right  path,  I  fear  my  inexperienced  steps 
will  stray  into  some  of  the  many  fascinating,  delusive 
snares  which  are  found  in  every  direction.  My  course  has 
hitherto  been  over  an  old  and  beaten  track,  secure  by  its 
remoteness  from  all  temptation.  What,  then,  shall  I  do, 
when  the  whole  host  of  the  world's  allurements  are  pre- 
sented at  once  to  my  weakness  ? 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  59 

I  wish  I  could  describe  to  you  the  feelings  which  the 
very  prospect  of  leaving  this  house  excites  in  this  poor, 
weak  heart,  —  so  weak  that  it  cannot  subdue  or  control  its 
emotions.  It  would  seem  romantic  and  visionary  to  any  one 
who  had  been  accustomed  to  change ;  but  this  house  sup- 
plied in  a  great  measure  the  relation  of  instructor,  parent, 
and  friend.  And  it  is  true,  that  in  every  part  are  recorded 
by  association  the  admonitions  of  those  friends  I  have  known 
in  it  or  lessons  which  the  experience  of  repeated  trials  has 
impressed  in  indelible  characters  on  these  scenes.  Here, 
when  temptation  assailed,  and  this  frail  heart  was  on  the 
point  of  surrendering  to  it,  would  the  remembrance  of 
former  good  resolutions,  presented  by  the  very  walls  around 
me,  recall  my  wandering  virtue,  and  strengthen  me  to  new 
exertions.  And  to  that  sacred  retreat,  that  sanctuary  of  all 
my  joys  and  sorrows,  I  owe,  if  not  the  creation,  at  least  the 
preservation  of  the  best  feelings  I  possess.  There  I  find 
the  history  of  the  most  important  moments  of  my  life,  for 
in  that  spot  did  the  first  sincere  and  heartfelt  aspirations  of 
my  soul  to  its  Creator  find  utterance ;  and  there,  too,  have 
I  always  found  support  under  trial,  in  prayer.  It  were  an 
endless  work  to  recount  all  the  associations  which  attach 
me  to  this  only  home  I  have  ever  known ;  it  would  be  to 
give  you  a  minute  account  of  every  transaction  which  has 
taken  place  since  I  lived  here. 

"  Mary." 

"Boston,  December,  1817. 

"  For  the  first  time  since  I  left  that  loved  spot  in  Pearl 
Street  have  I  seated  myself  at  my  desk;  and,  although  my 
object  in  now  doing  so  was  a  very  different  one,  I  cannot 
resist  the  impulse  which  the  sight  of  it  gives,  to  renew  the 
employment,  so  wont  to  be  pursued  at  it,  of  pouring  forth  a 
few  of  my  feelings  to  my  friend.  It  is  so  long  since  I  have 
had  an  opportunity  to  do  so,  and  so  various  have  been  the 


60  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

occurrences,  and  still  more  various  the  feelings  which  it  has 
been  my  lot  to  experience  in  the  course  of  the  lust  two 
months,  that,  though  my  mind  is  full  of  what  I  wish  to  com- 
municate, I  am  as  much  at  a  loss  what  to  write  as  if  all 
was  vacancy.  This  poor  little,  unconscious  desk  has  car- 
ried me  back,  against  my  will,  to  scenes  which  it  were 
wise  seldom  to  think  of.  The  last  time  I  wrote  at  it  was 
the  last  evening  I  spent  in  the  '  oaken  parlor,'  when  all 
was  sad  and  solitary.  But  I  cannot  dwell  on  it.  I  find  in 
the  record  of  that  evening  prophecies  which  are  hour  y 
fulfilling.  I  felt  deeply  impressed  with  a  sense  of  insufii- 
ciency  to  meet  with,  and  bear  aright,  the  temptations 
which  a  life  of  indulgence  would  present.  I  felt  that  I  was 
Dot  fit  for  society,  and  I  feel  so  still,  but  more  sensibly, 
more  truly,  for  it  is  now  the  lesson  of  experienqe,  sad  in- 
deed. But  a  truce  with  such  feelings  ;  —  it  is  not  of  them 
[  wish  to  write.  This  wicked  desk  has  conjured  up  the  old 
complaining  spirit  which  so  used  to  haunt  me  whenever  I 
attempted  scribbling  to  you.  I  am  happy,  contented  with 
any  change  that  has  or  may  take  place.  I  only  ask  a  less 
selfish,  more  disinterested  frame  of  mind,  —  to  be  more 
independent  of  the  opinion  of  others,  when  a  consciousness 
of  sincere  endeavor  to  do  right  acquits  me  of  actual  trans- 
gression. Selfish  are  all  my  regrets,  all  my  trials,  and 
wherefore,  then,  trouble  another  with  a  detail  of  what  self 
alone  can  sympathize  in,  or  ameliorate,  or  cure  .''  I  will 
not ;  —  for  once,  I  will  follow  reason  rather  than  inclination. 
"The  more  I  know  of  the  world,  the  more  I  see  of  the 
beings  who  constitute  what  is  so  called,  the  more  the  hopes 
and  wishes  which  excite  and  keep  alive  their  energies  sink 
into  insignificance,  and  the  more  my  own  restlessness  and 
anxiety  about  the  cares  and  pursuits  of  life  excite  my  as- 
tonishment and  contempt.  We  surely  were  not  placed  in 
this  world  solely  to  be  occupied  by  its  allurements,  or,  with- 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  61 

out  reference  to  the  design  of  our  Creator  in  placing  us 
here,  to  pursue  that  which  seems  to  us  the  most  easy  and 
pleasant  path.  And  with  our  reasons  convinced,  how  can 
we  so  unweariedly  pursue  that  phantom  happiness  which 
has  here  no  fixed  abode  ?  We  acknowledge  that  nothing 
here  can  satisfy  us,  and  yet  vainly  delude  ourselves  with 
the  hope  of  soon  attaining  some  ideal  joy  which,  like  the 
philosopher's  stone,  will  convert  all  into  solid  happiness. 
One  would  think  I  had  been  disappointed  in  some  fond 
hope,  or  found  too  late  my  fancied  joy  a  dream.  But  no, 
I  am  not  disappointed,  for  I  have  never  anticipated  ;  and  if 
aught  I  have  said  savors  of  this  temper  of  mind,  I  would 
recall  it. 

"  Mr.  Colman  advised  me  never  to  write  in  the  evening, 
lest  I  should  deceive  myself  and  my  friend  with  an  exag- 
gerated account  of  what  in  the  light  of  day  would  prove 
false.  I  am  half  asleep,  and  therefore  will  take  his  advice, 
and  I  already  find  myself  on  the  verge  of  the  gulf,  — self- 
deception. 

"  M.  L.  P." 

To  some  it  will  seem  strange,  that  one  of  such 
faith  and  principle,  with  no  proneness  or  taste  for 
the  follies  of  the  world,  should  express  fear  of  "  fas- 
cinating, delusive  snares,"  or  think  for  a  moment  of 
the  "  whole  host  of  the  world's  allurements."  But 
this  will  be  understood  by  those  who  remember  that 
strength  does  not  lie  in  a  sense  of  security,  nor  wis- 
dom in  assurance.  It  seems  to  have  been  ever  a 
part  of  Mary  Pickard's  wisdom,  to  own  her  weak- 
ness. And  more  than  this,  the  evil  that  she  feared 
was  not  that  coarse,  palpable  thing  usually  called 
"  vice,"  but  the  invisible,  subtle  evil,  so  serious  to  the 
sensitive  and  pure  mind,  though  by  the  many  lightly 
6 


62  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

regarded.  "  I  fear  not  actual  vice,"  she  said  at  this 
very  time,  "  but  to  become  thoughtless,  forgetful  of 
duty,  unmindful  of  my  highest  interests,  is  to  my 
mind  a  more  deadly  sin  than  many  which  are  ac- 
counted by  the  world  crimes.  It  is  this  I  most 
dread.  My  conscience,  or,  should  that  fail,  my 
friends,  would  save  me  from  the  first,  but  who  can 
control  the  thoughts  of  my  heart  ?  "  Thus  fearing, 
thus  armed,  she  went  out  into  the  world,  beginning 
at  this  point  her  life  of  self-guidance.  Of  her  means 
of  support  we  know  little.  She  was  not  dependent 
From  her  grandparents,  to  whom  she  had  been  so 
true  a  child,  she  received  enough  to  enable  her  to 
assist  her  father  in  his  depression,  though  it  is  evi- 
dent that  he  took  no  more  than  was  absolutely  ne- 
cessary, and  that  she  retained  enough  for  her  wants, 
more  than  she  used  to  the  time  of  her  marriage. 
This  could  have  been  accomplished,  however,  only 
by  a  uniform  and  strict  economy,  whose  necessity 
she  never  regretted,  except  as  it  curtailed  her  chari- 
ties. 

And  now  began  a  life  of  business  and  of  motion. 
Since  her  return  from  England,  at  the  age  of  five, 
Mary  had  been  from  home  very  little,  and  only  for 
her  schooling.  Hereafter  she  is  to  become  a  travel- 
ler, to  a  greater  degree  than  was  then  common  for 
a  lady,  and  greater  than  she  desired.  Her  journey- 
ings,  we  infer,  were  always  more  for  others  than  her- 
self; either  for  the  gratification  of  friends,  or  in  aid 
of  her  father.  For  she  seems  to  have  become,  in 
various  ways,  his  active  as  well  as  domestic  helper, 
and    was   intrusted  by   him,  we  should  judge  from 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  63 

their  letters,  with  important  business.  For  some 
purpose  of  this  kind,  in  the  year  following  our  last 
date,  she  went,  for  the  first  time,  to  New  York.  And 
the  account  she  gives  of  the  preparations  and  the 
journey,  while  it  shows  what  changes  there  have 
been  since,  shows  also  how  much  there  was  on  her 
mind  and  her  hands.  She  speaks  of  getting  but 
four  hours  for  sleep  from  having  "  so  great  a  variety 
of  occupation,  —  so  much  for  my  poor,  weak  head  to 
think  of."  And  then,  half  playfully,  half  in  earnest, 
she  writes  of  being  "  at  last  equipped  for  a  jomrney 
probably  of  two  months."  But  we  must  give  a  part 
of  the  letter  itself;  showing,  as  it  does,  how  near  to 
her,  even  in  her  busiest  moments  and  most  fatiguing 
labors,  were  the  higher  cares  of  the  mind  and  the 
soul. 

"  I  am  glad  of  having  a  great  deal  to  do  ;  any  thing  that 
will  call  my  little  powers  into  exercise  gives  me  a  transient 
feeling  of  consequence,  which,  as  it  is  highly  flattering  to 
vanity,  produces  rather  pleasant  sensations.  I  will  not 
enter  on  the  subject  of  leaving  home,  and  setting  out  on  an 
expedition  fraught  with  untried  temptatiops,  and  presenting 
even  in  the  most  favorable  view  a  scene  of  life  little  calcu- 
lated to  satisfy  my  taste  or  warm  my  heart.  But  I  believe 
there  may  be  instruction  found  in  every  situation,  and  I  hope 
that  seeing  eyes  and  an  understanding  heart  will  be  given 
me,  to  discern  and  improve  it.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
much  more  I  feel  than  I  ever  did  before,  at  leaving  home ; 
—  I  cannot;  it  is  in  vain  to  attempt  so  vast  a  subject  at 
such  a  time.  I  have  been  highly  favored  the  last  two  Sun- 
:lays  in  hearing  two  of  Mr.  Channing's  most  delightful  ser- 
mons,  which    I    hope    will    not   be    soon    forgotten.     Last 


64  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

Sunday  was  the  anniversary  of  many  eventful  days  to  me. 
The  first  Sabbath  in  September  has  for  many  years  been  a 
memorable  day  to  me,  and  this  last,  I  think,  exceeds  them 
all.  It  is  three  months  since  I  have  been  at  home  on  Com- 
munion-day, and  the  coldness  which  I  had  felt  creeping 
through  my  very  soul  gave  me  a  feeling  of  hope  that  I 
should  find  something  to  excite  and  elevate  my  affections. 
I  never  felt  more  entirely  humbled  to  the  dust,  or  more 
sensible  of  the  immense  privilege  we  enjoy,  in  having  such 
a  man  to  guide  us  on  our  way.  But  I  am  so  excessively 
weary  that  I  cannot  write  more,  —  scarcely  to  assure  you 
of  the  warm  affection  of  your 

"  M.  L.  P." 

The  journey  to  New  York,  by  way  of  Providence 
and  Norwich,  was  "  a  week's  work,"  though  it  seems 
to  have  been  all  used  in  travelling,  but  with  many 
"adventures"  and  delays  incident  to  the  beginning 
of  steamboats,  —  against  which,  notwithstanding  the 
discomforts  and  perils,  Mary  expresses  herself  "  not 
so  prejudiced  that  I  should  be  unwilling  to  step  on 
board  one  again."  The  letters  she  writes  from  the 
great  city,  so  new  and  strange,  are  almost  exclusive- 
ly business  letters  to  her  father,  and  his  replies  show 
that  he  had  given  her  important  commissions,  to  be 
discharged  in  person,  and  in  her  own  discretion. 
Directions  are  given  for  the  sale  or  purchase,  not  only 
of  muslins  and  moreens,  but  also  of  skins,  saltpetre, 
and  the  like.  And  at  the  end  of  several  weeks,  in 
which  she  seems  not  to  have  indulged  herself  in 
much  recreation,  she  speaks  of  returning  as  soon  aa 
she  "  has  seen  the  city." 

But  instead  of  returning,  she  was  induced  by  a 


chal<Jv>es  at  home.  65 

tempting  opportunity  to  go  still  farther  from  home, 
and  with  no  time  to  get  her  father's  permission,  —  a 
liberty  evidently  new  on  her  part,  and  receiving  at 
first  severe  reproof  from  him.  The  incident  is  not 
important,  except  as  showing  their  relation  to  each 
other,  and  the  manner  in  which  she  incurred  and 
endured  (being  now  a  woman)  the  only  harsh  lan- 
guage that  we  find  addressed  to  her  by  her  father,  — 
though  it  is  clear  that  he  always  inclined  to  be  ex- 
acting. The  trouble  in  this  case  was,  that  he  first 
heard  from  another  of  her  being  seen  on  her  way  to 
Baltimore,  when  he  thought  her  safe  with  friends  in 
New  York,  if  not  on  her  way  home.  The  fact  was 
easily  explained.  A  gentleman  with  whom  she  was 
intimate  invited  her  to  accompany  him  to  Baltimore, 
where  she  had  long  wished  to  visit  a  cousin  newly 
married  and  settled  there  ;  and,  with  the  approval  of 
those  with  whom  she  was  staying,  she  accepted  the 
invitation  as  suddenly  as  she  received  it,  "  and  in  two 
hours  was  in  the  stage  for  Baltimore,"  to  ride  night 
and  day  till  she  arrived  there.  As  soon  as  possible 
after  her  arrival,  she  wrote  to  her  father  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, giving  her  reasons  in  a  way  that  should 
and  did  avert  his  displeasure  entirely.  But  unfortu- 
nately he  had  already  heard  of  the  runaway  by  acci- 
dent, and  one  is  forced  to  smile  at  the  manner  in 
which  it  affected  him.  Not  waiting  to  hear  from 
Mary,  he  instantly  wrote  to  the  lady  in  New  York 
with  whom  she  had  staid,  —  "I  am  exceedingly 
vexed  and  mortified  that  she  should  do  any  thing  so 
foolish,  and  cannot  conceive  how  she  will  be  able 
to  justify  herself;   had  I  had  any  idea   she  would 


66  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

have  been  so  indiscreet,  I  would  not  liave  consented 
to  her  leaving  Boston.  I  have  been  expecting  daily 
to  hear  what  was  likely  to  be  done  with  some  mus- 
lins she  had  the  charge  of;  but  instead  of  attending 
to  that,  she  is  flying  like  a  wild  goose  about  the 
country.  These  girls  in  their  teens  [Mary  was  just 
twenty]  should  not  be  let  out  of  their  leading-strings ; 
nor  would  her's  have  been  let  loose,  but  from  confi- 
dence in  her  discretion."  Yet  in  company  with  this 
letter  he  sent  a  note  for  his  daughter,  which  begins 
with  saying  he  can  hardly  call  her  "  dear,"  but  ends 
in  a  very  different  tone ;  and  the  first  letter  he  re- 
ceives sets  all  right.  His  only  anxiety  now  is  to 
have  her  with  him,  coupled,  however,  with  a  fear  as 
to  her  companion  home,  and  again  making  us  smile 
by  a  prediction  which  has  been  singularly  reversed 
in  the  fulfilment.  "  If  you  are  well,  pray  come  by 
the  first  g-ood  opportunity.  I  am  afraid  you  will 
wait  till  the  end  of  the  month  for  the  parson  ;  your 
being  so  fond  of  parsons  is  rather  ominous,  and  you 
had  better  almost  be  any  man's  wife  than  a  par- 
son's." The  parson  referred  to  was  Mr.  Colman  of 
Hingham,  now  returning  from  a  visit  to  Baltimore. 
It  is  a  pleasant  conclusion  of  this  little  episode,  and 
offers  a  hint  to  children  as  well  as  parents,  that,  when 
Mary  found  how  much  her  father  had  felt,  without 
blaming  herself  for  doing  what  seemed  right  and  a 
duty,  she  expressed  such  sorrow  for  the  pain  she  had 
given  him,  in  terms  so  respectful  and  filial,  as  to  turn 
all  his  severity  against  himself,  and  increase  his  ad- 
miration and  love  for  her.  The  next  time  he  refers 
to  her  fondness  for  the  "clergy,"  it  is  in  a  vein  of 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  67 

pleasantry  which  seldom  relieves  his  merchant-like 
letters.  "  Could  you  not,  my  dear,  enliven  your  let- 
ters by  writing  of  persons  and  things  which  you  have 
seen  ?  I  think  your  letters  are  too  much  tinctu-ed 
with  what  may  be  called  moral  philosophy,  for  so 
young  a  person.  You  are  so  fond  of  the  clergy,  you 
will  get  into  a  habit  of  writing  like  one  of  them,  and 
if  you  were  to  turn  Qdaker,  I  have  no  doubt  but  you 
would  preach  yourself.  Tell  us  something  of  Balti- 
more, how  it  is  situated,  &c. ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Slipslop 
says,  something  of  the  '  contagious  country.'  Pray 
take  care  of  your  own  health,  and  get  the  family 
well  soon." 

The  last  words  refer  to  the  actual  cause  of  Mary's 
protracted  absence.  On  returning  to  New  York,  in- 
tending to  go  home  by  the  first  opportunity,  she  found 
her  good  friend,  Mrs.  Harman,  whom  she  was  visit- 
ing before,  dangerously  ill,  the  husband  absent,  and 
the  family  in  great  confusion  and  trouble.  At  once 
she  became  the  director  and  nurse,  —  offices  which 
she  seemed  destined  to  fill  wherever  she  went,  as  her 
subsequent  life  will  show.  All  thought  now  of  her- 
self and  her  plans  yielded  to  the  present  duty.  And 
not  an  easy  duty  could  it  have  been,  as  she  describes 
the  severity  of  the  mother's  sickness,  the  care  of 
difficult  children,  and  her  responsibility  in  another's 
house  and  a  strange  city.  As  soon  as  they  were  in 
a  condition  to  be  left,  she  returned  to  Boston,  though 
Mr.  Pickard  even  urged  her  to  stay  longer,  for  rest 
and  her  own  gratification. 

For  a  year  or  more  Mary  and  her  father  remained 
together  in  Boston,  with  no  change  or  incident  to  be 


68  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

noticed.  They  were  living  at  board,  so  far  as  we 
find,  though  they  may  have  taken  a  house,  as  he 
seemed  very  anxious  before  her  return  to  be  alone 
with  her,  having  an  aversion  to  company,  and  pre- 
ferring her  society  and  care  to  all  other. 

In  her  correspondence  at  this  time,  the  prevailing 
theme  and  object,  as  usual,  were  religion  and  its 
influences,  for  herself  and  others.  We  cannot  but 
observe  the  preponderance  of  this  theme,  and  yet  its 
perfectly  natural  and  healthy  tone.  "With  nothing 
dark  or  melancholy  in  her  religious  views,  with  an 
habitual  horror  of  ostentation  and  cant,  she  lost  no 
opportunity  to  cherish  and  diffuse  an  all-compre- 
hending faith.  The  letters  which  follow,  addressed 
to  her  constant  friend,  declare  their  own  occasion 
and  design. 

"Boston,  August  12,  1819. 

"  There  was  something  in  the  strain  of  your  last  letter 
to  me  which  has  given  me  some  feelings  of  anxiety.  You 
refer  to  the  course  of  medical  discipline  which  has  been 

pursued  with  Mr.  with  expressions  of  regret,  which, 

though  natural,  must  add  greatly  to  every  other  painful 
feeling  that  his  present  situation,  and  perhaps  loss,  must 
inevitably  excite.  I  cannot  reprehend  you  for  what  I  know 
but  too  well  is  the  natural  impulse  under  such  circum- 
stances ;  but  I  would,  if  it  were  possible,  point  to  a  healing 
balm  for  that  worst  of  all  wounds,  —  fruitless  regret. 

"  I  am  no  fatalist,  but  the  continual  influence  of  an  un- 
erring Providence  is  a  truth  which  was  early  impressed  on 
my  heart,  and  which  daily  observation  has  confirmed  and 
strengthened.  The  simple  order  of  nature  speaks  it  with  a 
powerful  voice ;  the  sacred  pages  of  God's  own  book  pro- 
claim it  in  terms  which  cannot  be  misconstrued  ;  and  would 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  69 

we  impartially  review  our  own  lives,  should  we  not  see 
in  them  incontrovertible  proofs  of  an  unseen  power,  that 
guided  and  directed  many  things  for  our  happiness  wliich 
our  blindness  would  have  wished  otherwise  ?  And  are  we 
to  assent  to  this  truth  only  when  our  minds  can  clearly  see 
its  reality  ?  Are  we  to  withhold  our  confidence  in  Him 
whom  we  have  always  found  mighty  to  save,  because  we 
cannot  in  a  single  instance  see  its  practicability  ?  O,  no ! 
far  be  it  from  us,  who  profess  to  acknowledge  the  being 
and  attributes  of  a  merciful  God,  to  shrink  when  he  puts  our 
faith  to  the  test.  Are  his  so  often  repeated  expressions  of 
love  towards  his  creatures  mere  empty  sounds  to  deceive 
the  credulous,  or  assist  the  imagination  in  forming  a  perfect 
model  of  moral  sublimity,  but  to  wither  into  airy  nothing 
when  we  dwell  on  them  for  support .''  This  we  would  not, 
most  certainly,  admit  in  our  actions,  and  why  should  we 
even  in  our  thoughts  ?  Surely,  believing,  as  we  do,  that 
his  promises  are  sure  and  steadfast,  we  may  in  the  darkest 
hours  of  adversity  find  consolation  in  the  thought,  that,  how- 
ever mysterious  may  be  his  decrees,  there  must  be  some 
good  result,  some  benevolent  design,  concealed  beneath 
the  most  doubtful  appearances. 

"  Cowper  has  beautifully  versified  this  idea  in  his  hymn, 
beginning 

'  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 
His  wonders  to  perform ' ; 

you  will  find  it  in  Belknap.  Read  it  for  the  sake  of  ore 
whom  in  all  trials  it  has  animated  and  consoled.  Forgive 
me  for  dwelling  so  long  on  this  subject.  Do  not  infer  that 
I  think  it  new  to  you,  but  it  is  one  in  which  I  have  felt  most 
deeply,  on  which,  too,  I  have  had  the  most  severe  contentions 
with  the  spirit  that  warreth  within,  and  one  which,  of  all  oth- 
ers, it  is  necessary  for  our  happiness  and  goodness  to  estab- 
lish in  our  hearts,  that  it  may  effectually  influence  our  lives. 

"  Maby." 


70  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

"  Brush  Hill,  September  22,  1819. 
"  It  is  now  a  month  since  the  date  of  your  last  letter, 
during  which  time  I  think  I  have  at  least  once  written  you ; 
but  our  intercourse  is  now  so  different  from  what  I  would 
desire  at  this  peculiarly  eventful  period,  that  it  seems  as 
if  I  did  nothing,  if  I  do  not  tell  you  every  day  how  much 
depends  on  its  events.  I  have  been  with  you  in  a  happy 
vision,  and  awake  to  the  sad  disappointment  that  it  is  but 
a  dream,  and  to  the  consciousness  that  for  a  long  time  my 
unfruitful  pen  will  be  my  only  means  of  communication. 
It  would  be  weak  to  repine  at  what  is  inevitable  ;  I  will  not 
give  way  to  it.  How  often  have  you  told  me  that  you  were 
almost  tempted  to  pray  for  trial,  that  you  might  know  the 
true  state  of  your  religious  life,  that  you  might  have  your 
faith  put  to  the  test,  and  the  veil  of  self-deception  taken 
from  your  eyes !  Often  have  I  prayed  that,  whenever  it 
should  please  the  Disposer  of  all  things  to  send  to  you  sor- 
row and  affliction,  you  might  find  strength  and  support 
where  least  expected,  not  from  your  own  resources,  but  in 
that  arm  which  is  mighty  to  save  to  the  uttermost  all  who 
seek.  It  is  not,  however,  simply  in  the  belief  that  whatever 
He  appoints  is  right,  that  you  are  to  receive  his  dispensa- 
tions ;  difficult  as  is  the  task,  we  must  not  rest  satisfied  with 
ourselves  until  we  have  learned  to  receive  with  cheerful  ac- 
quiescence what  the  world  calls  trials  ;  until  we  have  learned 
to  view  all  events  as  tending  to  the  same  great  end,  and  be 
thankful  for  what  is  denied,  as  well  as  what  is  received  ; 
knowing  that  there  is  but  one  great  object  in  each.  This 
may  at  first  seem  too  high  an  aim,  even  above  human 
powers  to  attain.  But  it  calls  not  on  us  to  give  up  natural 
feeling,  only  to  guide  it  aright,  and  the  higher  our  standard 
of  excellence  is  fixed,  the  greater  will  be  our  efforts  to 
attain  it,  and  our  success  unquestionably  proportioned  to  it. 
*'  But  why  talk  to  you  of  what  you  have  already  more 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  7] 

knowledge  ?  Forgive  me ;  I  lost,  in  the  interest  I  felt  in 
your  present  happiness,  the  remembrance  that  you  were 
not  in  want  of  counsel  on  a  subject  on  which  you  have 
already  experienced  enough  to  feel  its  importance.  But 
do  not,  my  dear  friend,  look  only  on  the  dark  side  of  the 
picture  ;  do  not  suffer  your  mind  to  lose  its  activity,  be- 
cause confined  at  present  to  one  subject.  It  is  not  to  con- 
tract our  feelings,  but  to  expand  and  teach  them  to  enter 
into  the  feelings  of  others,  that  we  are  made  thus  to  ex- 
perience what  it  is  to  suffer.  Should  it  not  quicken  our 
efforts  to  alleviate,  to  our  utmost  endeavor,  those  who  are 
tried  also,  and  by  a  cheerful  example  lighten  the  hearts  of 
fellow-sufferers  ?  I  have  felt,  and  know  therefore  too  well, 
the  tendency  of  severe  trial  to  enervate  the  mind,  and  lead 
us  insensibly  to  give  up  our  ambition  to  act  on  any  other 
subject ;  but  our  general  duties  are  not  the  less  imposing, 
because  a  particular  one  requires  more  attention,  nor  are 
we  to  give  way  for  a  moment  to  the  impulse  of  self-indul- 
gence, because  we  feel  any  peculiar  right  to   it 

All  this  is  unnecessary,  but  you  can  conceive  how  deeply  I 
feel  interested  in  the  result  of  this  great  trial  of  your  Chris- 
tian faith.  I  know  its  difficulties,  therefore  can  appreciate 
its  triumphs. 

"  Mary." 

"Boston,  1819. 
"  I  leave  the  dismal  beginning  of  a  letter,  intended  to 
excite  your  compassion  for  my  suffering  under  the  confine- 
ment of  a  cold,  and  it  would  be  rather  mal  apropos,  after 
what  has  passed,  to  proceed  in  due  form  to  give  an  account 
of  myself  during  the  long  period  since  I  last  saw  you.  But 
in  order  to  preserve  the  unity  of  time  and  place,  I  must  first 
revert  to  the  accident  which  brought  us  together  so  oppor- 
tunely.    I  will  not  pretend  to  defend  the  prudence  of  the 


72  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

action,  but  acknowledge  it  was  rather  the  impulse  of  strong 
desire  to  give  some  one  a  little  pleasure,  than  the  sober  dic- 
tate of  reason,  and  I  felt  that,  in  M 's  solitary  state,  she 

would  be  glad  to  see  any  one.  I  know  it  was  wrong  in  one 
point  of  view,  but  right  in  another.  I  was  rewarded  for  a 
severe  sickness,  as  far  as  regarded  my  own  sufferings, 
should  one  have  ensued.     I  had  a  very  pleasant  ride,  and 

became  more  acquainted  with  J than  I  could  in  any 

other  way.  I  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  in  his  conver- 
sation so  much  depth  of  thought  and  knowledge  of  mankind. 
I  am  glad  of  any  opportunity  to  extend  my  acquaintance 
with  character,  in  its  infinite  variety.  There  is  no  human 
knowledge,  I  am  persuaded,  which  has  so  great  an  influence 
on  our  happiness.  We  learn  to  estimate  ourselves  more 
justly,  and  in  the  formation  of  our  own  characters  we  are 
enabled  to  discriminate  between  right  and  wrong  more  ac- 
curately ;  for  in  nothing  are  we  more  liable  to  confound 
them,  than  as  respects  our  own  feelings  and  motives.  Is  it 
not  wilful  blindness  that  leads  us  so  often  to  ridicule  in 
others  what  we  unconsciously  practise  ourselves  ?  Why 
are  we  not  as  cautious  to  ascertain  the  motives  of  the  con- 
duct of  others  as  of  our  own  .''  We  console  ourselves, 
when  we  have  done  any  thing  which  to  the  eyes  of  the 
world  appears  weak  and  foolish,  with  the  thought  that  our 
motives  are  good,  and  with  a  consciousness  of  having  done 
what  was  right.  All  else  is  of  little  importance  ;  but  did 
we  believe  that  our  friends  were  as  much  influenced  by 
appearances,  in  their  judgment  of  us,  as  we  are  in  ours  of 
them,  I  doubt  if  the  approving  smile  of  conscience  would 
always  compensate  for  the  loss  of  the  good  opinion  of  those 
we  love.  Let  us  not,  then,  judge  solely  by  the  conduct  of 
any  what  are  their  real  characters  ;  peculiar  circumstances 
may  prevent  even  our  most  intimate  friends  from  dis- 
closing to  us  their  particular  reasons  for  every  action  ;  but 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  76 

in  that  case,  if  it  be  a  tried  friend,  it  were  surely  a  proof 
of  friendship  to  believe  that  it  is  at  least  felt  by  him  to  be 
right.  And  with  regard  to  people  in  general,  let  charity 
have  its  perfect  work,  and  let  us  think  all  are  free  from  delib- 
erate faults,  till  we  have  good  reason  to  suppose  otherwise. 
This  is,  perhaps,  if  understood  literally,  rather  too  liberal  a 
plan  for  this  world  of  sin  and  wickedness  ;  but  as  far  as  is 
consistent  with  reason,  and  our  previous  knowledge  of  men 
and  manners,  is  it  not  just  to  judge  of  all  as  we  would  be 
judged  .?  I  lidiVe  felt  the  want  of  this  spirit  of  impartial  jus- 
tice, and  speak  from  experience  in  some  respects  ;  in  one, 
I  hope  never  to  be  tried.  I  have  been  what  you  call  mys- 
terious ;  could  you  understand  me,  you  would,  I  am  sure, 
approve.  Believe  me,  I  am  not  governed  by  caprice  in 
my  treatment  of  friends  ;  if  any  thing  may  have  appeared 
so,  there  has  always  been  a  motive,  and  I  feel  that  I  may 
confidently  rely  on  your  friendship  for  all  charitable  con- 
struction  

"  I  am  in  a  sad  state.  I  long  to  see  you,  in  hopes  of  pro- 
curing some  remedy  in  your  better  regulated  mind.  I  am 
so  much  under  the  dominion  of  certain  sickly  feelings  of 
late,  that  I  begin  to  think  my  mind  will  never  recover  its 
healthy  tone  again  ;  active  employment  for  the  good  of 
others  is  the  only  preventive  for  such  disorders.  I  have 
not  at  present  any  prospect  of  such  a  means  towards  my 
own  recovery,  but  trust  the  vital  energy  of  my  being  is  not 
quite  extinct,  and  that  ere  long  it  will  rise  and  subdue  the 

weaker  powers I  have  just  thought  that  it  is  the 

spring-like  feeling  of  the  day  that  has  such  a  weakening 
effect  on  my  mind.  Why  do  we  indulge  so  much  in  ideal- 
ism, instead  of  the  real  pleasure  of  our  existence  }  I  have 
no  opinion  of  this  giving  way  to  imagination  in  our  estimate 
of  life. 

"  Mart." 
7 


74  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

In  the  month  of  October  a  death  occurred  which 
awakened  all  her  sympathy,  and  the  sympathy  and 
sorrow  of  a  large  comhiunity.  The  Rev.  John  E.  Ab- 
bot, whose  life  and  character  Henry  Ware  has  made 
familiar  to  us  all,  died  in  October,  at  his  father's  in 
Exeter,  where  Mary's  friend  was  staying  as  a  rela- 
tive. To  both  of  them  he  had  been  a  Christian  helper 
when  they  most  needed  Christian  counsel  and  en- 
couragement. His  short  life  was,  indeed,  a  blessing 
to  all  who  knew  him,  and  his  death  full  of  "joy  and 
peace  in  believing."  Again  was  the  pen  taken,  and 
solace  offered. 

*' Boston,  October  15,  1819. 
"  I  attempted,  my  dear  friend,  to  write  you  on  Tuesday, 
for  I  felt  then  that,  all  being  over,  I  could  calmly  write  of 
what  had  passed,  and  direct  your  feelings  and  my  own  to 
the  future.  But  I  knew  from  experience  that  a  few  days* 
delay  would  find  you  more  in  want  of  a  letter  ;  as  the  ne- 
cessary exertion  which  attends  a  scene  like  that  you  have 
passed  through  occupies  the  whole  mind  while  it  is  neces- 
sary to  support  it,  but  leaves,  when  it  is  passed,  a  vacuity 
which  needs  some  external  power  *.'>  fill  it.  Perhaps  I  too 
easily  found  in  this  an  excuse  for  leaving  my  letter  unfin- 
ished, and  now  that  I  review  it,  I  blush  at  my  own  weak- 
ness. I  sought  to  relieve  my  own  heart,  instead  of  strength- 
ening yours.  I  have  been  with  you  every  moment  since  I 
last  wrote  you,  and  too  fully  realized  all  that  you  have  suf- 
fered. At  the  moment  I  was  writing  you,  that  pure  spirit 
was  taking  its  flight.  I  felt  it  as  by  intuition,  and  needed 
not  further  confirmation.  But  it  was  a  relief  to  know  that 
his  blessed  spirit  was  for  ever  beyond  the  reach  of  pain 
and  anguish ;  that  it  was  exalted  to  its  native  home,  there  to 
realize  all  that  his  brightest  hopes  could  anticipate  of  a  glo- 
rious  immortality. 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  75 

*'  I  feel  an  almost  total  inability  to  write  you  on  this  sub- 
ject. Could  I  talk  to  you,  there  would  be  time  to  enlarge 
on  all  the  thoughts  which  it  suggests.  But  they  are  so  vari- 
ous, so  interesting,  so  overpowering,  that  I  know  not  on 
which  to  dwell.  His  virtues  are  too  deeply  imprinted  on 
our  hearts  to  receive  any  additional  weight  by  enumeration. 
We  can  only  go  forward  with  them  to  that  world  where 
they  shall  meet  a  reward  proportionate  to  their  value.  The 
remembrance  of  his  character,  while  it  awakens  every 
emotion  of  affection  which  he  excited  while  on  earth,  sheds 
on  the  heart  a  light  which  unfolds  to  the  eye  of  faith  its 
glorious  perfection  in  heaven.  Nothing  in  him  can  have 
escaped  the  mind  of  one  so  closely  connected  with  him ; 
friends  need  not  to  be  reminded  of  what  is  imprinted  in  indel- 
ible characters  on  their  hearts.  But  the  thought  that  what 
we  so  loved  and  cherished  is  gone  for  ever  from  us,  that 
the  form  by  which  we  have  held  communion  with  the  spirit 
is  hid  for  ever  from  our  view,  the  chilling  realities  of  death 
and  decay,  as  they  appeal  to  our  purest  earthly  feelings, 
are  the  most  difficult  to  contend  with.  Our  brightest  visions 
of  the  future  have  a  most  powerful  drawback  in  the  horror 
with  which  nature  shrinks  from  the  sad  appendages  of 
death. 

"  It  is  this,  I  think,  which  more  than  any  thing  else  makes 
us  look  forward  to  our  own  dissolution  with  instinctive 
dread,  and  leads  us  to  avoid,  if  possible,  every  thing  that 
reminds  us  of  it.  But  when  we  view  it  as  it  really  is,  but  a 
step  in  the  ceaseless  progression  which  is  to  carry  us  on  to 
eternity,  as  a  mere  change  of  the  external  habitation  of  our 
spirits,  a  removal  of  the  greatest  impediments  in  our  pro- 
gress towards  perfection,  then,  indeed,  it  loses  all  its  terror, 
and  we  think  of  our  friends  who  have  passed  through  it 
as  absent  only  in  body,  but  present  in  spirit.  Our  own 
souls,  though  still  connected  with  an  earthly  load,  form  by 


76  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

their  derivation  from  heaven  a  part  of  the  spiritual  world, 
ind  in  proportion  as  they  become  purified  from  the  corrup- 
tion of  the  world,  they  approach  the  state  of  those  beatified 
beings  who  have  finished  their  course.  And  therefore, 
though  separated  from  them  in  this  world,  we  are  allied  to 
them  more  closely  than  earthly  ties  could  bind  us,  and  must 
patiently  wait  for  the  fulfilment  of  our  Father's  plans  for 
our  joyful  removal  to  them.  This  is,  indeed,  a  new  incen- 
tive to  exertion,  to  prepare  ourselves  for  this  change.  I 
have  feared  it  might  supersede  a  still  higher  motive  ;  but 
how  far  it  may  be  permitted  to  influence  us,  I  dare  not  de- 
termine. That  our  earthly  affections  may  be  a  means  of 
leading  us  to  the  Creator  of  them  and  of  all  our  powers  of 
thinking  and  feeling,  I  believe  must  be  true,  or  they  would 
not  have  been  given  us  as  source's  of  such  pure  enjoyment 
here.  But  their  tendency  to  make  us  forget  all  other  con- 
siderations, to  absorb  those  thoughts  which  should  be  direct- 
ed to  higher  objects,  is  the  trial  which  always  attends  every 
means  of  worldly  enjoyment  we  possess,  and  as  such  should 

be  combated  with  our  utmost  powers 

"  Yours,  most  truly, 

"  M.  L.  P." 

In  the  summer  of  1821  Mary  went  with  her  fa- 
ther to  live  in  Dorchester.  And  the  change  from 
town  to  country,  and  from  a  life  of  business  and 
care  to  the  free  and  still  enjoyment  of  nature,  seems 
to  have  had  both  a  favorable  and  unfavorable  effect 
upon  her  mind.  Unfavorable  in  part,  if  we  may 
trust  her  own  account  of  herself.  In  this  account, 
however,  there  is  a  nearer  approach  to  morbidness 
than  we  have  before  seen,  and  a  kind  of  self-dispar« 
agement,  which  must  have  been  sincere  at  the  time. 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  77 

but  was  not,  we  think,  a  part  of  her  essential  charac- 
ter. Humble  she  was  always ;  truly,  deeply  humble ; 
yet  no  one  knew  better  than  she,  or  acted  more  upon 
the  truth,  that  genuine  humility  says  very  little  about 
itself.  And  the  expressions  of  it  which  appear  in  the 
letters  that  follow  were  made,  we  are  to  remember, 
to  a  confiding  friend,  to  whom  she  declared  all  that 
she  felt,  though  it  were  but  the  feeling  of  the  mo- 
ment, and  the  next  moment  recalled.  She  says  her- 
self, in  this  connection,  —  "I  believe  I  have  given  an 
extravagant  detail  of  my  danger;  and  I  may  be  un- 
der the  influence  of  one  of  those  fits  of  distempered 
mind,  to  which  I  have  always  been  prone."  If  this 
were  so,  it  shows  the  more  what  efforts  she  made, 
and  how  completely  she  brought  every  such  dispo- 
sition under  the  sway  of  principle,  so  that  few  who 
knew  her  ever  suspected,  we  imagine,  that  any  effort 
was  necessary. 

But  we  are  ourselves  overstating,  it  may  be,  the 
'  disposition  to  which  we  refer.    Wherever  it  appears, 
as  here,  it  is  connected  with  such  just  and  exalted 
sentiments,  that  it  seems   incidental  and  unimpor- 
tant. 

"Dorchester,  June  18,  1821. 
"  The  first  line  which  I  date  from  this  place  is  to  you, 
my  friend,  to  whom  my  first  feelings,  on  all  occasions  of 
self-interest,  turn  for  sympathy.  Your  friendly  curiosity  is 
awake  to  know  what  effect  a  new  kind  of  life  is  to  have  on 
a  character  which  I  know  you  feel  of  some  importance  to 
yourself.  I  would  not  imply  that  this  selfish  reason  is  the 
only  motive  of  your  interest,  but  I  seek  rather  to  find  in  it 
some  pretence  for  indulging  myself  in  the  egotism  which  is 
7* 


78  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

creeping  over  me  ;  and  which  led  me  to  this  desk  for  relief. 
How  much  will  one  short  week  of  quiet  reflection  teach  of 
our  own  hearts !  How  deceived  are  we,  if  we  imagine  we 
know  ourselves  thoroughly,  when  we  have  been  but  par- 
tially exposed  to  that  change  of  circumstances  and  situation 
which  alone  can  develop  character  even  to  one's  self!  I 
have  found,  indeed,  just  what  I  anticipated,  that  the  change 
from  constant  activity  to  perfect  stillness  and  inaction  would 
of  course  produce  a  vacuity  which  time  and  habit  would 
alone  overcome  ;  but  I  knew  not  the  whole  weakness  of  my 
mind.  In  the  bustle  of  a  busy  life  (idly  busy,  perhaps,  but 
not  the  less  exciting)  I  had  almost  lost  sight  of  my  natural 
propensities.  Accustomed  to  find  objects  to  occupy  my 
powers  wherever  I  turned,  I  mistook  the  simple  love  of  be- 
ing employed  for  real  energy  of  mind,  and  therefore  did 
not  even  apprehend  the  want  of  power  to  direct  these  ener- 
gies to  whatever  I  pleased.  But  it  is  not  as  I  thought.  My 
natural  turn  of  mind  (if  I  may  so  call  what  is  perhaps  more  a 
weakness  of  heart)  is  for  that  calm,  saddened  view  of  things, 
which  seeks  enjoyment  from  the  contemplative  in  charac- 
ter, and  lives  rather  on  the  food  of  imagination  than  reality. 
I  never  found  in  words  a  more  accurate  description  of  the 
prevailing  mood  of  my  natural  feelings  than  in  that  exquisite 
little  poem,  '  I  'm  pleased,  and  yet  I  'm  sad,'  —  yet  not  of  an 
uneasy,  discontented  temperament,  but  simply  inclined  to 
the  purest  refinement  of  melancholy.  Trials  which  called 
for  vigor  of  mind  and  cheerfulness  of  manner,  a  situation 
whose  duties  required  the  full  employment  of  time  which 
might  otherwise  have  been  wasted  in  cultivating  this  pro- 
pensity, and  perhaps  a  little  pride  lest  those  who  could  not 
understand  it  should  discover  it,  and  I  hope  a  principle 
which  taught  me  to  wage  war  with  what  must  interfere  with 
higher  duties,  —  all  these  combined  to  stifle  the  propensity, 
and  I  sometimes  thought  had  almost  extinguished  it.     But 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  79 

now,  removed  from  those  occupations  which  demanded 
thought  as  well  as  action,  thrown  entirely  upon  myself,  with 
every  thing  around  to  inspire  the  enthusiastic  indulgence  of 
fancy,  my  imagination  has  suddenly  taken  the  reins,  and  1 
find  it  will  not  be  without  a  struggle  that  reason  and  princi- 
ple will  recover  them. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  set  about  some  new  study  or  dry 
Look,  if  I  cannot  find  some  animate  subject  to  interest  and 
fix  my  mind.  There  is  a  little  deaf  and  dumb  girl  just  op- 
posite us,  and  if  I  knew  the  process  I  would  teach  her  to 
read.  I  must  have  something  to  do  which  will  rouse  my 
mind  to  exertion.  I  have  employment  enough,  but  it  is  not 
of  my  mind,  and  that  is  unfortunately  one  which  will  retro- 
grade if  it  does  not  progress.  I  am  delighted  with  our  sit- 
uation, and  cannot  describe  to  you  the  sensations  of  first 
realizing  that  I  am  living  in  the  pure,  unconfined  atmosphere 
of  nature.  It  has  a  power,  which  I  hope  familiarity  will 
never  efface,  of  elevating  the  heart  to  Him  whose  '  hand  I 
see,  wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  on  every  tree.'  It  is 
a  privilege  which  I  hope  I  shall  fully  estimate,  to  be  thus 
reminded  at  every  glance  of  the  love  and  power  of  our  Fa- 
ther in  heaven.  I  am  grateful  for  that  goodness  which  has 
appointed  me  so  much  of  the  purest  enjoyment  of  life,  and 
I  would  testify  it  by  devoting  all  my  powers  to  his  best  ser- 
vice. I  was  not  made  for  solitude  of  heart,  and  I  would 
find  all  that  my  heart  requires  in  the  love  of  divine  perfec- 
tion. I  think  Foster  will  do  me  good,  — '  On  the  Epithet 
Romantic' 

"  I  have  just  been  taking  a  delightful  walk,  as  the  sun  was 
setting  gloriously,  and  I  think  if  you  were  only  with  me  I 
should  enjoy  it  tenfold.  I  wish  you  could  arrange  matters 
to  come  out  with  father  one  night  before  you  go,  and  we 
will  go  to  Milton. 

«  Mary." 


80  CHANGES    AT    HOML. 

"Dorchester,  July  25,  1821. 

"  I  wrote  you  last  rather  a  monotonous  round  of  sedenta- 
ry employments,  occasionally  interrupted  by  a  visit  to  the 
city,  or  a  ride  about  the  country.  On  the  whole  I  enjoy  life 
highly,  although  my  present  mode  is  so  novel  a  one,  that 
I  am  sometimes  at  a  loss  to  decide  whether  it  is  actual  en- 
joyment or  negative  indulgence  of  ease.  But  country  life 
is  a  privilege  I  estimate  most  highly  ;  that  I  can  at  all  times, 
when  I  raise  my  eyes,  find  my  thoughts  so  forcibly  directed, 
by  all  I  behold,  to  that  '  still  communion  which  transcends 
the  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise  ' !  I  am  persuad- 
ed that  it  is  far  easier  to  cultivate  a  devotional  spirit  here 
than  in  the  confusion  of  life,  and  to  have  a  deeper  sense 
of  the  presence  of  God  in  the  heart.  Feeling  is  little,  to 
be  sure,  unless  it  fortifies  for  action ;  but  in  the  hour  of 
trial,  we  find  great  assistance  in  recalling  past  exercises, 
and  in  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal  concerns ,  habit  is  a 
powerful  coadjutor.  That  high-wrought  state  of  feeling 
which  some  of  the  splendid  appearances  of  nature  often 
produce  on  a  heart  which  has  once  felt  the  power  of  piety, 
is  ridiculed  as  enthusiasm  of  the  most  dangerous  kind  ;  and 
I  do  not  myself  think  it  is  any  test  of  religious  character ; 
but  as  far  as  the  enjoyment  of  the  present  moment  is  of  any 
importance,  what  can  exceed  it.-*  We  are,  indeed,  too  apt 
to  feel  that  we  have  been  on  the  mount,  when  it  was  but  a 
vision  which  we  saw  ;  but  where  it  does  not  so  deceive  us, 
nothing  but  a  good  effect  can  result  from  its  indulgence. 
I  recollect  part  of  a  description  of  this  state  of  mind  in 
Wordsworth's  Excursion,  which  from  its  accuracy  has  re- 
mained in  my  mind,  though  I  forget  the  scene  which  sug- 
gested it :  — 

'  Sound  needed  none, 

Nor  any  form  of  words  ;  his  spirit  drank 

The  spectacle ;  sensation,  soul,  and  form 

All  melted  in  liim ;  they  swallowed  up 


CHANGES    AT    HOMR.  81 

His  animal  being ;  in  them  did  he  live, 
And  by  them  did  he  live  ;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not ;  in  enjoyment  it  expired. 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered  no  request. 
Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 
The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise, 
His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the  Power 
That  made  him  ;  it  was  blessedness  and  love.' 

"  I  have  got  Samor  to  read,  because  you  recommend  it, 
»  od  am  shocked  to  find  how  unfit  my  mind  has  become  for 
every  kind  of  application  in  the  way  of  reading.  I  know 
you  think  I  am  greatly  deficient  in  that  kind  of  literary  taste 
which  fits  one  for  an  agreeable  companion,  —  and  I  feel 
most  sensibly  that  it  is  true.  But  I  am  fully  persuaded  that 
if  the  sentimental  requisites  of  an  interesting  character  are 
only  to  be  derived  from  bookSj  I  must  go  through  life  the 
plain  matter-of-fact  lady  I  now  am  ;  it  is  too  late  for  me  to 
work  a  reform. 

"  Mary." 

Not  long  afterward,  an  event  occurred  of  no  little 
interest  and  importance  to  Mary,  —  the  marriage  of 
her  true  friend,  now  Mrs.  Paine,  who  went  to  reside 
in  Worcester.  In  a  letter  dated  May,  1822,  we 
find  a  full  expression  of  the  thoughts  and  wishes 
caused  by  this  event,  but  of  too  personal  and  private 
a  character  to  be  used.  The  letter  closes  with  an 
allusion  to  herself,  showing  that  she  had  trials  and 
experiences  of  her  own,  not  to  be  disclosed  to  the 
public  eye.  She  speaks  of  the  previous  winter,  as 
"a  remarkable  era,  never  to  be  forgotten.  Its  per- 
plexities have  passed  away,  but  its  blessings  have  in- 
creased and  become  consummated.     We  have   all 


82  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

found  it  an  important  period,  and  to  some  of  us  the 
most  so  of  life.  How  far  it  has  improved  us,  He 
who  searcheth  the  heart  alone  knows  ;  but  for  myself, 
I  feel  that  it  has  been  a  scene  of  more  mental  suffer- 
ing than  I  ever  before  knew.  You  have  seen  it,  and 
will  not  misunderstand  me  when  I  say  that,  had  1 
been  more  indifferent,  I  should  have  escaped  much 
torture.     But  it  has  been  a  good  lesson  for  me." 

There  are  few  greater  demands  upon  the  exercise 
of  a  sound  discretion  and  practical  wisdom,  than  the 
giving  counsel  and  exerting  a  right  influence  on  scep- 
tical minds.  Nor  is  it  often  that  such  minds  are 
willing  to  open  themselves,  and  confide  their  doubts 
or  indifference  to  a  Christian  friend.  Unfortunately, 
Christians  are  apt  to  be  either  too  careless  in  their 
conduct,  or  too  morose  in  their  manners  and  severe 
of  judgment,  to  make  a  favorable  impression  on  the 
sceptical,  and  win  their  confidence  in  the  assurance 
of  a  generous  sympathy.  We  dare  not  conjecture 
how  much  of  the  infidelity  of  the  world,  and  the  un- 
happiness  of  the  unbelieving,  is  owing  to  this  cause. 
We  are  sometimes  driven  to  the  fear,  that  Christians 
themselves  may  have  as  much  to  answer  for  as  those 
whom  they  exclude  for  their  unbelief,  and  whom 
they  fail  to  impress  with  the  power  of  their  own  faith, 
or  the  beauty  of  their  holiness.  We  have  many  in- 
timations that  this  was  felt  peculiarly  by  her  of  whom 
we  write.  And  it  is  one  indication  of  character,  and 
of  the  aspect  and  influence  of  her  faith,  that  many 
came  to  her  freely  with  their  doubts  and  difficulties. 
Some  of  the  particular  cases  cannot  be  published. 


cha?:ges  at  home,.  83 

But  where  no  names  are  used  in  her  account  of  them, 
nor  a  hint  given  of  the  persons  intended,  there  can 
be  no  impropriety  in  offering  the  facts  as  related. 
The  reflections  with  which  she  accompanies  them 
may  be  profitable  to  both  classes  of  minds,  the  be- 
lieving and  the  doubting. 

Tinder  date  of  August,  1822,  Mary  writes  to  her 
former  instructors  in  Hingham,  giving  with  other  in- 
cidents the  following  case  of  hard  indifference,  if  not 
infidelity. 

"  This  leads  me  to  a  subject  upon  which  I  want  assist- 
ance. I  have  lately  met  with  a  person  of  my  own  age, 
who,  though  living  in  a  Christian  land,  under  the  public  dis- 
pensations of  the  Word,  from  the  more  powerful  influence 
of  those  with  whom  she  has  lived  and  the  want  of  education, 
is  as  it  were  wholly  ignorant  of  what  religion  is,  in  any 
form,  except  as  it  is  in  some  way  connected  with  going  to 
church,  but  without  the  least ^eeZin^  of  what  that  connection 
is.  She  is  not  deficient  in  strength  of  mind,  or  capacity  to 
receive  instruction  on  the  subject,  but  without  any  idea  of 
the  necessity  of  any  other  principle  of  action  than  she  al- 
ready possesses  ;  that  is,  a  firmness  of  purpose  proceeding 
from  natural  decision,  and  a  patience  under  trial,  because 
experience  has  taught  the  weakness  and  uselessness  of  irri- 
tation. Now  this  seems  to  me  an  opportunity  of  doing 
some  real  good.  I  have  almost  unlimited  influence  over 
her  from  the  strong  affection  she  feels,  and,  as  my  oppor- 
tunities are  few,  I  cannot  neglect  this  one  without  reproach. 
But  that  dreadful  consciousness  of  incapacity  will  place  its 
iron  hand  on  my  wishes.  I  am  aware  that  much  might  and 
ought  to  be  done,  but  that  much,  if  not  every  thing,  depends 
on  the  first  impression.  She  must  be  made  to  feel  the  neces- 
sity, in  order  to  be  excited  to  the  pursuit  of  piety  ;  and  how 


84  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

this  is  to  be  done  I  know  not.  Never  did  I  feel  so  forcibly 
the  imperfection  of  the  characters  of  Christians,  as  on  this 
occasion.  To  be  able  to  point  to  one  example  of  the  power 
of  religion  in  producing  that  uniform  loveliness  of  charac- 
ter and  happiness  of  life  of  which  it  is  capable,  would  do 
more  than  volumes  of  argument  to  such  a  mind  and  heart. 
It  has  made  me  shrink  at  my  own  unworthiness  of  the  name 
I  bear.  Could  you  find  a  moment  to  assist  me  in  this  un- 
dertaking, you  would  confer  an  unspeakable  kindness. 

"  M.  L.  P." 

Another  more  decided  and  serious  case  came  to 
her  knowledge  about  the  same  time,  —  a  case  of 
avowed  atheism,  confided  to  her  for  relief,  and  most 
kindly  and  wisely  met  by  her ;  so  that,  while  she  sup- 
posed no  effect  had  been  produced,  the  work  was 
going  on,  and  an  intelligent,  troubled  spirit  came  out 
of  darkness  into  marvellous  light.  This  success, 
which  seems  to  have  surprised  her,  was  apparently 
owing  to  the  beauty  of  her  own  religion,  and  the 
harmony  and  happiness  of  her  life,  which  the  doubter 
could  not  fail  to  see,  which  indeed  first  induced  the 
confession,  and  was  more  effectual  than  any  formal 
arguments ;  another  evidence  of  the  power  and  re- 
sponsibility of  the  Christian  course  and  character. 
"  What  a  responsibility  did  this  trust  impose  on 
me ! "  Mary  writes ;  "  for  I  knew  that  no  human  being 
but  myself  was  aware  of  it.  It  was  too  much  to 
bear  alone ;  I  was  unequal  to  it,  I  dared  not  attempt 
it  for  a  time,  I  knew  that  so  much  depended  on  the 
very  first  step  in  such  cases." 

The  counsellor  to  whom  she  would  gladly  have 
gone  for  aid,  her  beloved  pastor,  was  then  absent, 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  8»*» 

travelling  in  Europe  for  his  health.  He  returned  the 
following  summer ;  and  the  account  she  gives  of 
that  happy  event,  familiar  as  the  facts  may  be  to 
the  readers  of  the  Memoir  of  Channing,  will  be  in- 
teresting to  many,  as  the  impression  of  one  who  saw 
and  heard  for  herself. 

"  Dorchester,  August  25,  1823. 
"  My  dear  N : 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  passing  the  day  with  E , 


and  ahhough  it  is  late,  and  I  am  very  tired,  I  cannot  resist 
the  strong  desire  I  have  to  send  you  a  few  Unes  by  her  to- 
morrow, that  I  may  give  you  some  faint  idea,  at  least,  of 
what  you  would  have  felt,  had  you  heard  Mr.  Channing  yes- 
terday. But  to  begin  at  the  right  end  of  the  tale,  I  passed 
Thursday  in  town,  and  learned  that  Mr.  Channing  would 
possibly  come  in  a  vessel  which  was  expected  daily.  On 
Friday  I  was  at  Nahant,  and  saw  a  ship  enter  the  harbor 
which  might  be  that.  Saturday  I  went  to  Newton,  and  on 
my  return  was  told  that  he  had  actually  arrived,  and  was  to 
preach  the  next  morning.  I  could  scarcely  credit  it,  and  it 
was  not  until  my  arrival  at  home,  when  I  received  a  note 
from  George  requesting  me  to  come  in  to  hear  him,  and  pass 
the  day  in  Pearl  Street,  that  I  could  be  convinced  it  was  ac- 
tually true.  I  went  in  on  Sunday  morning,  and  with  what 
sensations  I  saw  the  church  filling,  and  every  one  looking 
round  in  anxious  expectation,  you  may  perhaps  imagine  ; 
it  was  a  feeling  more  of  dread  than  pleasure,  lest  the  first 
glance  at  his  face  should  destroy  all  our  hopes.  He  wisely 
waited  until  all  had  entered,  and  when  his  quick  step  was 
heard  (for  you  might  have  heard  a  leaf  fall),  the  whole 
body  of  people  rose,  as  it  were  with  one  impulse,  to  welcome 
him.  He  was  much  affected  by  this,  and  it  was  some  sec- 
onds before  he  could  raise  his  head ;  but  when  he  did,  it 
made  thejeyes  that  gazed  on  him  rejoice  to  see  him,  seated 
8 


86  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

m  his  accustomed  corner,  looking  round  on  his  people  wiih 
the  most  animated  expression  of  joy  glowing  on  his  face, 
and  with  the  evidences  of  improved  health  stamped  on 
every  feature.  His  skin  was  much  burned,  to  be  sure, 
which  may  have  given  him  an  appearance  of  health  that 
did  not  belong  to  him,  but  the  increase  of  his  flesh  and  the 
animation  of  his  countenance  promised  much. 

"  Mr.  Dewey  commenced  the  sei*vices  as  he  used  to  do, 
but  when,  after  the  prayer,  Mr.  Channing  rose  and  read 
his  favorite  psalm, — 

'  My  soul,  repeat  His  praise, 
Whose  mercies  are  so  great,' 

I  could  hardly  realize  that  he  had  been  absent,  his  voice 
and  manner  and  action  were  so  exactly  like  himself  in  his 
very  best  days.  He  stood  through  the  whole  psalm,  and 
seemed  to  join  in  and  enjoy  every  note  of  the  music.  He 
could  not  control  a  smile  of  joy.  But  of  what  folloyved  I 
can  tell  you  little.  You  have  heard  him  when  he  felt 
obliged,  as  then,  to  dismiss  the  restraints  of  form,  and 
speak  freely  the  thoughts  that  filled  his  mind,  and  have 
perhaps  often  thought  with  others  that  he  went  too  dxr,  was 
too  particular,  too  personal  ;  but  yesterday,  I  beheve  the 
most  uninterested  person  present  could  not  find  fault.  I 
thought  it  was  the  most  deeply  aflecting  address  I  ever 
heard  ;  it  was  also  deeply  and  decidedly  practical.  There 
are  few  occasions  which  will  authorize  a  minister  to  excite 
the  feelings  of  his  audience  in  a  very  great  degree,  and 
none  which  can  make  it  allowable  for  him  to  rest  in  mere 
excitement.  But  when  their  minds,  from  any  peculiar  cir- 
cumstance, are  partfcularly  susceptible,  I  know  no  reason 
why  it  should  not  be  permitted  that  they  be  addressed 
familiarly  and  aflectionately  on  the  subject  of  it.  But  you 
need  not  that  I  should  defend  Mr.  Channing  from  the 
charge  of  egotism.  You  understand  his  motives  too  well 
to  require  it. 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  87 

"  His  texl  was  from  the  hundred  and  sixteenth  Psalm  : 
*  What  shall  I  render  unto  God  for  all  his  mercies  ?  I 
will  offer  the  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving,  I  will  call  on  the 
name  of  the  Lord,  I  will  pay  my  vows  unto  the  Lord  now 
in  the  presence  of  his  people.'  Returning,  as  he  said,  un- 
der such  peculiar  circumstances  of  mercy  to  his  home  and 
his  people,  he  trusted  no  apology  was  necessary  for  waiving 
the  common  forms  of  the  pulpit,  that  he  might  speak  to  his 
people  as  to  his  friends,  that  he  might  in  the  fulness  of  his 
heart  utter,  its  emotions  to  those  who,  he  trusted,  could  un- 
derstand  and  sympathize  with  them.  As  he  slightly  re. 
viewed  the  views  with  which  he  left  us,  the  mercies  thai 
had  followed  him,  and  the  blessings  which  were  showered 
on  his  return,  he  seemed  almost  overpowered  with  the  ful- 
ness of  his  feelings,  and  I  feared  he  would  not  be  able  to 
go  on.  But  his  voice  rose  as  he  said,  '  And  now  what 
shall  I  render  for  all  these  benefits  ?  I  will  first  pay  my 
vows  unto  Him,  whose  mighty  arm  hath  been  stretched  out 
to  save,  whose  never  failing  love  hath  everywhere  attended 
me.'  The  ascription  of  praise  which  followed  was  more 
truly  sublime  than  any  thing  I  ever  heard  or  read.  His 
solemn  dedication  of  his  renewed  life  to  the  service  of  Him 
who  had  borne  him  in  safety  over  the  great  deep,  who  had 
sustained  him  in  sickness,  comforted  him  in  affliction,  and 
crowned  all  his  gifts  by  giving  him  strength  to  return  to  his 
duties,  was  almost  too  much  to  bear.  It  was  a  testimony 
to  the  power  of  religion,  which  spoke  more  loudly  than  all 
the  books  that  ever  were  written  to  prove  it.  But  he  meant 
not  to  speak  of  his  past  experiences  merely  to  relieve  his 
own  heart ;  he  had  but  one  great  object  in  view,  the  good 
of  his  people,  and  he  would  not  lose  sight  of  that  even 
when  the  fulness  of  his  own  feelings  might  almost  be  al- 
lowed to  engage  his  whole  mind.  He  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  enumerate   all   that  he   had   learned   during  his 


88  CHANGES    AT    HOME. 

absence,  but  one  thing  he  could  assure  us ;  that  at  every 
step,  under  all  circumstances,  in  every  country,  and  with 
every  variety  of  character,  he  had  become  more  and  more 
convinced  of  the  value  and  necessity  of  the  Christian  reve- 
lation." 

The  last  of  that  succession  of  bereavements  which 
Mary  was  so  early  called  to  meet,  and  by  which  she 
was  left  as  alone  in  the  world,  was  now  at  hand 
Since  the  death  of  her  mother,  in  1812,  when  there 
devolved  mainly  upon  her,  at  the  age  of  fourteen, 
the  care  of  a  dispirited  and  feeble  father,  and  two 
aged  grandparents,  with  other  members  of  the  fam- 
ily in  a  most  trying  condition,  she  had  lived  eithei 
in  the  sick-room,  or  in  a  press  of  domestic  cares 
and  business  avocations.  That  these  often  made  a 
severer  demand  upon  her  strength  and  patience,  as 
well  as  affection,  than  any  one  knew  at  the  time,  or 
indeed  ever  knew,  appears  from  various  intimations 
in  her  letters  and  life.  And  all  this  was  now  to  be 
brought  to  a  crisis  by  the  death  of  her  father,  leav- 
ing her  without  one  near  relative,  or  proper  home. 
They  had  been  boarding  for  some  time  in  Dorches- 
ter, in  the  family  of  Mr.  Barnard ;  where  she  received, 
as  she  says,  "  the  greatest  kindness  and  affection,"  — 
and  she  felt  the  need  of  it.  But  let  her  give  the  cir- 
cumstances in  her  own  words. 

"  Boston,  November  1,  1823. 
"  My  dear  Friend  :  — 

"  I  have  been  wishing  this  whole  week  to  find  time  to 
write  you,  but  it  has  been  wholly  impracticable.  I  have 
been  in  a  perpetual  agitation  from  sundry  unexpected  oc- 
currences and  continual   interruptions   from    visitors.      In 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  89 

tact,  at  no  moment  of  my  whole  existence  have  I  more 
wanted  your  counsel  and  sympathy.  You  know  it  is  my 
lot  to  bs  assailed  in  more  than  one  direction  if  in  any,  and 
it  has   heen   more   remarkably   the  case    now   than    ever. 

I  thank  you  most  sincerely  for  your  two  good  let- 

tcrs  ;  it  was  more  than  I  dared  expect,  and  it  was  a  cordial 
to  me  to  receive  the  kind  expression  of  your  sympathy, 
though  I  should  not  have  doubted  its  existence  without  it. 
You  say  you  '  have  heard  but  little  of  me,'  and  it  was 
scarcely  possible  that  you  should  hear  of  the  immediate 
circumstances  that  attended  my  trial.  It  was  so  sudden 
that  I  was,  as  it  were,  alone,  and  I  have  feared  that,  in  in- 
dulging myself  in  writing  to  you  of  it,  I  should  give  way 
too  far,  and  distress  and  weary  you..  I  have  realized  more 
than  I  ever  did  in  any  of  the  various  changes  I  have  met 
with,  that  '  the  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb,'  and 
even  in  the  very  extremity  of  trial  we  can  be  strengthened 
to  support  all  with  calmness.  * 

"  For  the  first  three  days  of  my  father's  sickness  he 
seemed  to  have  only  a  severe  cold  and  slightly  disordered 
stomach,  and  though  I  had  called  Dr.  Thaxter,  it  was  more 
to  satisfy  him  that  the  medicine  I  gave  was  necessary  for 
him,  than  from  any  doubt  that  I  could  do  all  that  was  need- 
ed ;  for  he  had  often  appeared  more  sick,  and  I  had  ad- 
ministered to  him  without  any  advice.  On  the  morning  of 
the  fourth  he  appeared  to  be  a  little  wandering,  but  re- 
mained quiet  until  night,  when  he  was  very  violent  for  two 
or  three  hours  ;  and  the  following  day  I  was  toid  by  the 
physician  that  nothing  but  a  miracle  could  preserve  his  life 
until  the  next  morning.  I  heard  it  calmly,  I  believe  be- 
cause I  could  not  realize  it.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  con- 
scious that  he  was  sick ;  he  did  all  that  I  asked  him  to,  but 
did  not  seem  to  know  me.  I  soon  found  that  the  doctor's 
prediction  was  but  too   true,  for  symptoms  of  decay   in- 


90  CHANGES    AT     HOME. 

creased  very  rapidly,  and  at  three  the  next  morning  he 
breathed  his  last,  as  a  child  would  go  to  sleep.  Not  a 
struggle  indicated  the  approach  of  the  destroyer.  I  held 
his  hand,  and   gazed  at  him  until  I  was  taken  from  him 

senseless.     No  one  was  with  me  but  Mr.  B ,  and  Mr. 

E ,  his  son-in-law.  I  recovered  myself  in  a  few  mo- 
ments and  found  Mr.  E fainting ;  this  obliged  me  in- 
stantly to  rouse  myself  to  action,  which  was  all  mercifully 
disposed,  and  1  sat  down  quietly  with  them  for  the  remainder 
of  the  night,  giving  directions  when  any  thing  passed  my 
mind,  or  remaining  silent,  knowing  all  would  be  done  just 
as  I  wished. 

"  It  would  have  seemed  dreadful  to  me  had  I  anticipatfei 
passing  through  such  a  scene  with  only  two  gentlemen, 
who  a  few  months  before  were  perfect  strangers  to  me  ; 
but  it  never  passed  my  mind  that  I  was  not  with  my  nearest 
friends.  I  could  not  in  volumes  tell  you  of  all  their  kind- 
ness. It  was  one  of  the  striking  testimonies  of  God's  mer- 
ciful care  of  me,  that  He  placed  me  with  them.  Indeed, 
His  goodness  towards  me  has  been  most  wonderful,  and 
above  all,  that  He  has  enabled  me  to  feel  it  continually ; 
even  in  the  awful  stillness  of  that  night  I  never  lost  sight 
of  it.  I  could  feel  as  it  were  His  arm  beneath  me  ;  and  I 
can  truly  say  I  never  experienced  that  fulness  of  heavenly 
peace  which  results  from  undeviating  confidence  in  Him, 
which  I  then  did.  It  was  an  hour  of  peculiar  elevation 
which  I  can  never  forget,  and  which  I  trust  will  ever  be  a 
source  of  unfailing  support,  as  it  must  be  of  gratitude. 
What  beside  could  have  sustained  me  amidst  its  horrors  ? 
All  that  I  could  call  my  own  was  departing  from  me,  and  I 
was  standing  as  it  were  alone  in  the  universe  ;  but  I  felt  that 
I  was  the  object  of  His  care  who  was  all-sufficient,  and  I 
found  in  that  consciousness  a  calmness  which  nothing  could 
move.     I  stood  firm  and  erect,  though  the  storms  of  life 


CHANGES    AT    HOME.  91 

seemed  to  have  concentrated  their  power  to  overthrow  me, 
and  I  felt  that  the  Power  which  enabled  me  to  do  this 
would  never  forsake  me,  for  it  was  not  my  own.  We  may 
talk  of  the  resolution  and  fortitude  which  some  possess,  but 
what  would  it  all  be  at  such  an  hour  ?  Nothing,  —  less 
than  nothing.  I  gave  up  all  reliance  upon  myself,  or  I 
should  have  utterly  failed.  Every  thing  was  directed  with 
the  utmost  mercy.  Even  his  unconsciousness,  which  I 
thought  at  first  I  could  not  bear,  was  a  mercy  to  him,  for 
how  much  was  he  spared  by  it ;  he  could  not  have  left  me 
alone  without  a  severe  struggle. 

"  I  am  now  fixed  for  the  winter,  and  shall  soon  feel,  I 
doubt  not,  as  much  at  home  as  it  is  possible  for  me  to 
feel ;  and  if  the  greatest  kindness  and  afiection  that  ever 
were  shown  to  any  human  being  can  make  me  happy,  I 
shall  be  so,  for  I  have  it. 

"  With  love,  I  am  yours, 

"  M.  L.  P  " 


VI. 

VISIT    ABROAD. 

Mary  Pickard  was  now  alone.  Every  member 
of  her  own  family  had  gone,  and  she  had  witnessed 
and  smoothed  the  passage  of  every  one.  She  had 
only  entered  mature  life,  but  her  twenty-five  years 
of  experience  and  change  had  been  equal  to  double 
that  period  of  common  life.  Already  had  she  learned 
the  great  truth,  which  to  many  comes  late,  if  at  all, — 

"  Wc  live  in  deeds,  not  years  ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths  ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial." 

Heretofore  she  had  always  had  an  object  to  live 
for,  —  some  one  dependent  upon  her  affection  and 
exertions,  to  whom  it  was  happiness  enough  to  min- 
ister. Now  there  was  no  one ;  and  we  wonder  not 
that  she  said,  "  I  seem  to  hang  so  loosely  on  the 
world,  that  it  is  of  little  importance  where  I  am." 
It  was  indeed  a  singular  providence  which  at  this 
moment  opened  to  her  an  entirely  new  field,  yet  one 
vhoUy  congenial  with  her  tastes  and  wishes. 

Her  only  relatives  on  the  father's  side  weie  in 
England,  connections  whom  she  had  seen  only  as  a 
child  twenty  years  before,  but  had  always  hoped  to 
see  again.  And  not  for  her  own  gratification  only, 
but  that  she  might  be  of  service,  if  possible,  to  those 


VISIT    ABROAD.  93 

•who  were  in  depressed  and  obscure  condition,  as 
some  of  them  were.  This  consideration,  which  would 
have  offered  least  inducement  to  most  young  minds, 
perhaps  have  kept  them  away,  was  an  incentive  to 
Mary,  and  gave  her  a  right  to  find  in  the  opportunity 
a  duty  as  well  as  a  pleasure ;  especially  as  the  occa- 
sion given  her  was  itself  an  opportunity  to  serve  an 
invalid  friend.  The  circumstances  will  appear  in 
the  following  letters  to  Miss  Gushing  and  Mrs. 
Paine. 

^'Boston,  March  8,  1824. 
"  My  dear  Miss  Gushing  :  — 
"  If  sorrow  for  sin  is  any  ground  for  forgiveness,  I 
trust  you  will  grant  it  to  me,  for  my  shameful  neglect  of 
you.  Do  not  think  that  forgetfulness  or  want  of  interest 
has  led  to  this ;  you  know  me,  I  trust,  better  than  to  be- 
lieve that,  and  you  know  my  faults  too  well  not  to  be  able 
to  account  for  it,  from  my  too  deeply  rooted  habit  of  pro- 
crastinating. Often  during  the  past  winter  have  I  thought, 
if  I  could  only  see  you,  I  should  be  sure  to  find  the  guid- 
ance and  sympathy  which  I  have  longed  for ;  but  when  I 
thought  of  writing  to  you,  I  felt  the  selfishness  of  troubling 
you  with  my  own  perplexities,  knowing  that,  as  my  mind 
was  so  much  occupied  by  them,  I  could  not  compensate  you 
for  it  by  any  other  communications  I  could  make.  The 
last  six  months  have  indeed  brought  to  me  a  constant  strug- 
gle of  feeling.  Left  as  I  was  to  choose  my  own  path  on 
the  wide  ocean  of  life,  with  health,  strength,  and  some 
means  of  influence,  the  responsibility  which  it  imposed  to 
use  to  the  best  possible  advantage  the  powers  that  God 
had  given  me,  to  promote  the  end  for  which  I  knew  they 
were  given,  was  almost  overpowering,  —  and  at  times 
I  would  have  given  myself  up  willingly  to  the  control  of 


94  VISIT    ABROAD. 

any  one  who  would  relieve  me  from  the  burden.  1  have 
experienced  in  so  many  striking  ways  the  great  goodness 
of  God  in  giving  me  light  to  guide,  and  strength  to  sustain 
me  in  hours  of  trial,  that  it  is,  I  know,  but  practical  infi- 
delity to  doubt  for  one  moment  that  his  protecting  influence 
will  stiLl  be  extended  towards  me,  if  I  try  my  utmost  to 
attain  e  knowledge  of  duty,  and  persevere  to  my  best  abili- 
ty in  the  path  which  conscience  dictates.  But  the  diffi- 
culty is,  that,  though  in  great  events  where  we  see  at  once 
that  no  human  power  can  aid  us  we  cannot  but  acknowl- 
edge that  He  is  sufficient  for  all  things,  we  are  too  apt  to 
lose  sight  of  this  truth  in  cases  in  which  human  agency 
must  be  exerted,  forgetting  that  God  is  as  surely  the  operat- 
ing cause  in  one  case  as  the  other.  When  it  appears  that 
our  fate  may  be  determined  by  a  single  word  which  we 
feel  the  power  of  uttering,  we  can  scarcely  help  thinking 
that  upon  our  own  heads  must  be  all  the  consequences 
which  may  follow  ;  and  thinking  thus,  we  must  realize  our 
weakness  and  insufficiency. 

"  All  this  has  been  preying  upon  my  mind,  and  its  effects 
have  been  deplorably  contracting  to  my  thoughts.  I  have, 
indeed,  been  outwardly  much  occupied  by  various  pursuits, 
trying  to  do  something  for  others,  but  my  thinking  has  been 
nearly  all  for  myself.  This  is  my  only  excuse  for  not 
writing  you  more,  and  I  think  with  this  specimen  you  will 
be  satisfied  that  I  have  not  before  attempted  it.  I  believe 
that  all.  the  events  that  befall  us  are  exactly  such  as  are 
best  adapted  to  improve  us  ;  and  I  find,  in  a  perfect  confi- 
dence in  the  wisdom  and  love  which  I  know  directs  them, 
a  source  of  peace  which  no  other  thing  can  give  ;  and  in 
the  difficulty  I  find  in  acting  upon  this  belief  I  see  a  weak- 
ness of  nature,  which  those  very  trials  are  designed  to  assist 
us  in  overcoming,  and  which  trial  alone  can  conquer. 
Whatever  is  in  store  for  me,  I  trust  that  I  shall  not  forget 


VISIT    ABROAD.  95 

that  the  first  and  only  important  object  of  existence  is  to 
promote,  as  far  as  my  powers  may  extend,  the  cause  of 
holiness.  That  every  one,  however  humble  their  station 
and  hmited  their  capacity,  has  some  power  to  do  this,  I 
doubt  not,  as  I  find  in  every  line  of  God's  word  a  command 
to  do  so ;  and  I  pray  that  my  feeble  efforts  may  be  fully 
devoted  to  this  end. 

"  March  15.  What  changes  a  few  days  may  produce 
in  one's  prospects  !  Little  could  I  think,  a  week  ago,  that 
the  conclusion  of  this  letter  was  to  tell  you,  that  in  less 
than  another  week  I  should  be  floating  on  the  vast  ocean, 
on  my  way  to  England.  But  so  it  is,  and  I  hope  that  the 
suddenness  of  the  determination  to  go  has  not  shut  from 
my  eyes  any  very  important  consideration  against  it.  It 
seems  to  me  like  a  dream,  for  it  is  only  in  my  dreams  that 
I  have  ever  thought  of  it  as  a  possibility.  I  have  wished  to 
see  my  relations  there,  having  always  kept  up  a  constant 
correspondence  with  them,  and  felt  very  much  interested 
jn  them  ;  but  since  my  father's  death,  I  have  viewed  the 
accomplishment  of  this  wish  as  an  impossibility.  But  now 
that  so  good  an  opportunity  has  offered,  I  cannot  hesitate 
to  accept  it.  I  seem  to  hang  so  loosely  on  the  world,  that 
it  is  of  little  importance  where  I  am,  as  it  regards  duties, 
and  it  is  an  advantage  to  enlarge  one's  ideas,  which  I  feel 
ought  to  be  improved.  To  tell  you  all  that  I  feel  at  leaving 
home  would  be  impossible ;  it  is  a  most  solemn  undertak- 
ing, and  when  I  glance  at  the  possibilities  connected  with 
such  a  step,  it  almost  overwhelms  me. 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  every  one  of  you  once  more.     My 
heart  is  indeed  too  full  to  tell  you  half  that  I  wish. 
"  Yours  most  affectionately, 

"  M.  L.  P  " 


%  VISIT    ABROAD. 

"Boston,  March  13,  1824. 
"  My  dear  N : 


"  I  have  been  sitting  many  minutes  with  my  pen  in  my 
hand  and  paper  before  me,  trying  to  bring  to  myself  suffi- 
cient resolution  to  tell  you  the  new  and  surprising  turn 
which  has  taken  place  in  my  wayward  destiny.  I  have 
been  so  long  the  creature  of  circumstances  that  you  must 
be  prepared  for  changes  of  all  kinds  in  my  lot ;  but  I  know 
not  how  it  will  strike  you  when  you  learn  for  truth,  that  in 
one  week  from  to-morrow  I  sail  for  England.  I  thought 
that  I  was  entirely  willing  to  go,  but  as  I  find  myself  telling 
you  of  it,  and  think  that  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  me  to 
see  you  again,  my  heart  sinks  within  me,  and  I  almost 
shrink  from  it.  In  fact,  this  is  the  first  moment  I  have  re- 
alized it.  I  knew  nothing  of  it  until  the  day  before  yester- 
day, when  Edward  Robbins  sent  to  me,  to  say  that  his  phy- 
sicians and  friends  advised  his  taking  a  voyage,  and  that,  if  I 
could  go  with  him,  it  would  decide  him  to  take  their  advice. 
I  had  thought  of  the  subject  so  much,  that  I  was  prepared  at 
once  to  answer.  It  is  a  very  desirable  thing  for  me  to  visit 
the  few  relations  which  I  have  there,  and  I  could  never 
give  up  the  expectation  and  endeavor  to  accomplish  it.  My 
dependent  state  was  the  only  barrier,  as  I  could  never  go 
unless  under  the  protection  of  one  of  the  few  male  friends 
from  whom  I  should  be  willing  to  receive  such  an  obliga- 
tion, and  it  was  so  unlikely  that  either  of  those  few  would 
ever  think  of  going,  that  I  had  but  little  hope  I  should  ever 
realize  my  wishes.  But  this  proposition  at  once  removed 
all  difficulties.  Our  families  have  been  so  long  connected, 
and  Edward  himself  has  been  so  particularly  kind  to  me 
through  life,  and  more  than  ever  since  I  have  been  without 
a  parent's  protection,  and  is  in  every  respect  so  exactly  cal- 
culated to  make  one  feel  willing  and  happy  to  be  under 
obligation,  that  I  could  not  but  feel  that  now  was  the  time 


VISIT    ABROAD.  97 

(if  ever)  for  me  to  accomplish  this  great  object.  Doubts 
about  the  sufficiency  of  my  means,  and  some  scruples  about 
my  right  to  employ  them  in  this  way,  made  me  hesitate  a 
few  hours  ;  but  in  less  than  four  I  decided,  with  the  advice 
of  all  whom  it  was  necessary  to  consult,  that  it  was  right  to 
improve  the  present,  as  all  future  opportunities  were  uncer- 
tain. That  it  cost  me  a  deep  inward  struggle  to  make  my 
feelings  acquiesce,  you  will  not  doubt.  The  first  day  I  felt 
like  a  child.  I  could  not  glance  even  at  the  reasons  which 
favored  my  going  without  sad  and  overpowering  retrospec- 
tion, and  the  thought  of  the  uncertainty  of  the  result,  the 
thousand  possibilities  involved  in  such  a  change,  almost 
turned  my  brain  ;  and  yet  every  one  was  wondering  how  I 
could  look  so  composed  and  keep  so  still.  It  is  singular 
how  much  little  things  sometimes  concur  to  aid  us.  It  was 
Thursday,  and  I  was  just  going  to  lecture,  as  Mr.  Robbins 
came  in  with  his  proposal.  I  went  still,  and  Mr.  Walker 
gave  us  one  of  the  most  delightful,  strengthening  sermons 
upon  the  influence  of  the  Spirit,  and  the  all-sufficiency  of 
trust  in  its  guidance,  that  I  ever  heard  in  my  life.  I  believe 
no  other  subject  could  have  fixed  my  attention,  and  it  did 
fix  it  most  effectually. 

"  I  know  it  is  utterly  impossible  that  I  should  see  you, 
therefore  I  will  not  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  thought.  I 
have,  of  course,  a  great  deal  to  think  about,  although  lit- 
tle personal  preparation ;  but  I  must  leave  every  thing  in 
which  I  have  the  least  concern  just  as  I  should  wish  if  I  was 
certain  I  should  never  return.  God  only  knows  what  the 
future  will  bring  to  me,  but  I  hope  to  find  myself  wholly 
willing  to  yield  myself  to  the  disposal  of  his  providence. 
We  think  of  these  changes  for  others,  and  feel  little  doubt 
about  their  safety,  but  when  the  case  becomes  our  own,  it 
IS  another  thing.  To  embark  on  the  wide  ocean  in  a  little, 
frail  vessel  with  perfect  calmness,  requires  a  firmness  of 
9 


98  VISIT    ABROAD. 

faith  of  which  no  one  can  boast  until  they  have  stood  the 
test.  I  have  no  fear  of  it  now,  and  I  trust  I  shall  find  that 
the  ground  of  confidence  in  the  all-powerful  God,  which  the 
experience  of  my  life  has  given  me,  will  be  sufficient  to 
support  me  in  all  events.  I  am  willing  to  be  put  to  the  test, 
for  if  all  that  I  think  I  feel  is  but  delusion,  I  had  better 
discover  the  delusion  before  it  is  too  late. 

"  We  have  taken  passage  in  the  Emerald.  If  I  feel 
alone  here,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  in  a  land  of 
strangers.  We  go  to  Liverpool,  and  probably  immediately 
to  London  from  there.  I  go  with  very  moderate  hopes 
about  seeing  the  wonders  and  beauties.  I  must  be  satisfied 
with  seeing  people,  not  things.  I  shall  have  no  right  to 
travel  much,  and  shall  have  no  advantages  not  common  to 
the  most  insignificant ;  nevertheless,  if  I  can  attain  my  prin 
cipal  object,  all  the  rest  will  be  unexpected  gain.  It  is 
most  probable  we  shall  be  gone  a  year,  but  it  is  possible  we 
may  return  in  the  fall. 

"  What  a  variety  for  one  poor  soul  in  the  last  four 
months  !  It  absolutely  makes  me  giddy  to  think  of  it  all. 
But  what  a  source  of  comfort  is  it,  that  in  all  things  I  have 
sought  guidance  where  I  believe  it  is  ever  freely  given ; 
and  I  do  believe,  whatever  is  the  event  of  all  this,  it  must 
be  the  direction  of  Him  who  knows  and  governs  all  things 
I  must  not  write  more. 

"  Yours  most  affectionately, 

"  M.  L.  P." 

A  particular  friend  in  Milton,  one  of  the  true?t 
and  noblest  friends  that  Mary  or  any  one  ever  had, 
describes  her  as  at  this  time  "  worn  to  the  bone ' 
with  care  and  trial ;  and  then  breaks  forth  in  praise 
of  her,  in  unmeasured  terms;  adding,  "  Yet,  with  all 
this  superiority,  where  is  the  other  being  on  whom 


VISIT    ABROAD.  99 

any  poor  fool  can  repose  with  such  trust  and  con- 
fidence, as  on  her  ?  My  meanest  thought  is  not 
checked  in  the  utterance,  because  her  mind  is  so 
flexible  it  stoops  to  the  lowest.  I  am  only  afraid  of 
adoring  her,  so  I  may  as  well  hold  my  peace."  This 
was  said  in  earnest,  and  is  one  of  many  expres- 
sions of  admiration  and  affection  called  out  by  her 
departure. 

Of  her  progress  and  occupations  abroad,  our 
knowledge  is  drawn  exclusively  from  her  own  letters. 
These,  therefore,  we  shall  use  freely,  leaving  them 
to  show  their  connection  as  far  as  they  can,  and 
-  make  their  own  impression  ;  begging  the  reader  to 
remember,  however,  that  they  were  all  written  in  the 
haste  of  travelling  or  the  fatigues  of  watching,  and 
that  their  literary  merit  or  public  appearance  was  the 
last  thought  to  occur  to  the  mind  of  the  writer.  She 
wrote  a  great  deal,  and  we  confine  our  selection 
chiefly  to  passages  relating  to  personal  experience} 
rather  than  descriptions  of  places  or  works  of  art. 
For  these  last  she  allowed  herself  little  time,  though 
keenly  alive  to  the  enjoyment  of  all  grandeur  and 
beauty,  and  giving  passing  indications  of  her  power 
of  appreciating  and  delineating. 

Arriving  in  Liverpool  in  April,  she  was  made  to 
feel  at  home  immediately,  by  the  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy of  a  kindred  mind,  in  one  to  whom  Dr.  Chan- 
ning  had  given  her  a  letter,  and  whose  name  and 
sad  fate  are  familiar  to  many,  —  Mrs.  Freme,  daugh- 
ter of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wells,  who  settled  in  Brattleboro', 
Vermont,  where  she  afterward  perished  by  fire.  Ma- 
ry's  account  of  her  interview  with    that   excellent 


100  VISIT    ABROAD. 

woman  is  characteristic,  as  her  first  interest  in  a  new 
country. 

"London,  April  19,  1824. 
"  la  Liverpool,  I  went  with  Mrs.  Freme  to  visit  the  Fe- 
male Penitentiary,  and  took  a  long  walk  with  her.  She  had 
relinquished  an  engagement  out  of  town  to  go  with  me,  and 
I  know  not  that  I  ever  felt  more  grateful  to  a  stranger  in 
my  life.  She  is  an  uncommonly  sensible,  kind  woman,  ex- 
tremely interested  in  the  encouragement  of  all  good  works, 
u  warm  Unitarian,  and  a  truly  liberal,  benevolent  Christian. 
I  never  enjoyed  any  thing  in  my  life  more  than  the  conver- 
sation I  had  with  her.  I  had  begun  to  feel  the  want  of  that 
free  intercourse  upon  those  subjects  upon  which  we  can 
speak  only  to  those  who  we  are  sure  are  equally  interested 
in  them  ;  and  in  a  strange  land,  to  meet  with  one  who 
not  only  entered  fully  into  every  thing  I  wished  to  say, 
but  carried  me  on  to  higher,  more  improving  and  elevated 
thoughts,  was  indeed  a  privilege," 

''London,  May  6,  1824. 
"  My  dear  Ann  :  — 

"  It  was  a  great  deprivation  to  me  to  be  unable  to  write 
dt  sea.  I  hoped  to  have  had  a  large  packet  for  the  many 
kind  friends  who  aided  and  blessed  my  departure,  express- 
ing something  of  the  gratitude  which  overpowered  me.  I 
have  sometimes  feared  that  you  thought  me  insensible  to  it 
all,  for  I  dared  not  try  to  utter  even  a  word  of  what  I  felt 
lest  I  should  lose  my  self-possession  entirely,  and  trouble 
them  more  than  my  thanks  would  please  them.  God  alone 
Anovvs  how  fully  I  appreciated  it  all,  and  when  I  look  back 
upon  the  period  which  elapsed  after  my  father's  death  until 
I  left  you,  I  know  not  how  to  speak  my  astonishment  that 
such  a  one  as  myself  should  have  been  so  signally  favored. 
For  your  Aunt  Nancy  I  can  only  say  her  reward  must  be 
beyond  this  world  ;  nothing  tiiat  I  or  any  one  here  can  do, 


VISIT    ABROAD.  101 

is  adequate  to  it.  Never  was  a  human  being  so  blessed 
with  kind  friends,  and  could  I  feel  that  I  had  been  as  grate- 
ful as  I  ought  to  have  been,  I  should  be  happy.  But  the 
entire  absorption  of  every  thought  in  self,  during  the  past 
winter,  is  now  a  subject  of  much  reproach. 

"  I  had  time  to  think  of  all  this  during  the  long  days  and 
wakeful  nights  on  the  voyage,  and  I  do  assure  you  I  took 
a  new  view  of  every  thing  connected  with  it.  Whether  it 
was  the  absence  of  every  thing  else  to  interest  my  mind,  or 
the  natural  increase  of  our  attachment  to  all  objects  when 
we  are  going  from  them,  I  know  not,  but  there  were  mo- 
ments of  acute  agony,  when  I  thought  of  the  return  I  had 
made  for  the  kindness  manifested  towards  me.  How  often 
I  longed  to  be  for  a  little  time  on  the  little  stool  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, giving  utterance  to  my  spirit !  There  was  so 
little  in  the  monotony  of  sea-life  to  interrupt  the  train  of 
one's  thoughts,  that  I  could  not  sometimes  get  rid  of  an  idea 
which  possessed  me,  and  I  often  woke  up,  wearied  with  the 
continuation  of  one  and  the  same  dream,  night  after  night. 
But  I  did  enjoy  a  great  deal  at  sea,  there  was  so  much  to 
elevate  the  mind  in  the  very  situation  ;  and  the  want  of  con- 
fidence which  I  felt  from  the  first  evening  in  the  head  of 
the  concern  tended  most  powerfully  to  raise  my  thoughts 
above  all  second  causes,  to  the  One  Great  Cause  and  Sup- 
porter of  all  things.  Never  did  I  so  deeply  feel  our  entire 
dependence  upon  the  power  of  God,  never  did  I  so  fully 
realize  the  impotence  of  human  skill,  as  when  I  saw  it 
contending  with  the  winds ;  and  yet  there  was  something 
ennobling  in  the  idea,  that  human  skill  had  contrived  and 
taught  to  guide  such  a  vehicle  as  a  ship  upon  the  trackless 
waste  of  waters ;  and  while  we  trace  all  this  power  to  the 
original  source  of  it,  we  cannot  but  feel  that  He  has  given 
to  us  a  noble  nature.  Often  when  the  sea  was  rising  in 
immense  waves  on  every  side,  and  the  ship  tossed  about  aa 
9* 


102  VISIT    ABROAD^ 

though  it  were  but  a  little  shell  which  the  waters  would  soon 
overwhelm,  have  I  felt  as  I  never  before  did  the  immense 
value  of  that  religion  which  was  able  to  calm  all  fears,  and 
raise  the  mind  to  a  state  even  of  enjoyment,  under  such 
terrific  circumstances.  What  but  a  firm  confidence  that, 
whether  we  live  or  die,  or  whatever  event  befall  us,  it  is 
in  Infinite  Wisdom  that  it  is  so,  can  give  this  composure  ? 
Shall  we  not  then  hold  fast  and  cherish  such  a  faith  ?  shall 
we  not  seek  to  understand  its  nature,  and  endeavor  with  out 
whole  hearts  to  ingraft  its  principles  upon  our  characters  ? 

"  Tell  me  as  much  about  Mr.  Channing  and  his  sermons 
as  you  can.  I  went  to  chapel  on  Sunday  with  Mrs.  Kinder, 
but  heard  very  poor  preaching,  to  very  poor  houses.  But 
Mr.  Channing  told  me  just  what  to  expect,  therefore  I  was 
prepared  for  it.  Poor  as  it  was,  however,  the  delight  of 
finding  myself  once  more  in  a  place  of  public  worship 
overbalanced  all,  and  when  I  heard  the  same  tunes  sung 
to  the  same  words  which  I  had  heard  in  Federal  Street,  it 
was  a  little  more  than  I  could  bear  firmly.  I  am  charmed 
with  the  whole  Kinder  family ;  they  are  too  literary  to 
make  me  feel  able  to  communicate  the  least  pleasure,  on 
account  of  my  ignorance  uponall  literary  subjects,  but  they 
are  every  thing  that  is  kind,  and  very  agreeable,  and  I  find 
1  good  lesson  for  my  humility  when  I  am  there. 

"  Mary." 

"London,  May  26,  1824. 

"  My  deak  Friends  :  — 
"  For  the  first  four  weeks  I  resisted  all  the  entreaties  ot 
my  cousins  to  go  to  them,  because  Dr.  R was  so  de- 
pressed and  ill,  and  it  was  so  bad  for  Mrs.  R to  be  left 

alone.     But  the  third  week  Dr.  R improved  very  much 

in  health,  and  somewhat  in  spirits.  And  though  he  oflered 
me  many  great  inducements  to  accompany  them  to  Lea- 
mington, I  could  not  think  it  quite  right  to  do  so,  as  my 


VISIT    ABROAD.  103 

society  would  not  be  as  necessary  to  them  as  it  had  been, 
and  they  were  going  to  a  fashionable  watering-place.  I 
had  seen  nothing  of  my  own  friends,  and  as  Mrs.  Bates 
and  Mrs.  Morton  had  asked  me  to  stay  with  them  when  I 
first  arrived,  I  took  the  liberty  of  accepting  their  invitation 
for  a  few  days. 

"  I  believe  I  told  you  I  had  a  kind  letter  from  Uncle 
Ben,  and  have  since  had  a  visit  from  his  son,  who  heard  of 
our  arrival,  and  came  up  the  next  day,  in  true  Lovell  style, 
to  take  me  home  with  him  to  Waltham  Abbey,  near  En- 
field. 

"  Through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Kinder's  family  I  have 
had  many  privileges.  By  their  intercession  I  have  been 
admitted  to  Newgate,  and  though  Mrs.  Fry  was  not  there, 
I  was  very  much  gratified.  I  met  with  a  young  Quakeress, 
who  was  rather  handsome,  was  very  intelligent  and  kind, 
and  has  been  very  attentive  to  me.  Mrs.  Fry  is  too  much 
out  of  health  to  go  often,  but  I  am  to  be  informed  by  my 
little  friend  when  she  next  goes. 

"  Walking  to  Newington  with  the  Kinders,  to  return  a 
call,  they  asked  me  if  I  would  go  with  them  to  see  Mrs. 
Barbauld.  To  be  sure,  it  made  my  heart  beat,  but  I  could 
not  say  no.  It  was  indeed  a  privilege,  and  I  wish  I  could 
tell  you  all  about  it.  She  spoke  with  great  feeling  of  those 
of  our  ministers  whom  she  had  seen,  —  Buckminster, 
Thacher,  and  Channing.  Having  never  seen  Mr.  Thacher's 
sermons,  I  had  the  honor  of  sending  them  to  her,  and  of 
writing  her  a  note.  A  note  to  Mrs.  Barbauld  !  What  pre- 
sumption !  Yet  I  was  asked  afterward  to  dine  with  her. 
She  is  remarkably  bright  for  her  age,  speaks  of  death  with 
the  firmest  hope,  and  I  really  felt  as  if  1  were  communing 
with  a  spiritual  body.  Though  now  eighty-two,  she  pos- 
sesses all  her  faculties  in  full  perfection.  Her  manner  is 
peculiarly  gentle,  her  voice  low,  and  very  sweet. 


104  VISIT    ABROAD. 

"  I  wont  with  the  Kinders  to  see  some  rich  Quakers,  who 
are  very  active  in  the  school  concern,  and  also  to  a  meet- 
ing of  the  British  and  Foreign  School  Society,  where  1  saw 
the  Duke  of  Sussex,  and  heard  some  fine  speaking.  They 
go  upon  the  Lancaster  and  Bell  system,  and  truly  wonder- 
ful is  their  success  and  usefulness.  I  have  heard  Madame 
Catalani,  and  some  of  the  finest  singers,  at  a  concert  at  the 
Opera  House,  and  was  as  much  amazed  as  it  was  possible 
to  be,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  heard.  But  some  of  those 
with  less  power  pleased  me  more.  No  one  can  equal  /ter, 
or  be  compared  with  her.  Braham  sung  with  her,  with  a 
full  band,  and  her  voice  was  heard  above  all ;  it  is  tremen- 
dous, for  the  house  is  immense,  and  she  entirely  filled  it. 
At  a  meeting  of  the  Sons  of  the  Clergy  at  St.  Paul's,  I 
heard  some  very  fine  sacred  music.  About  thirty  little 
boys  sang  the  high  parts,  and  chanted  the  responses.  The 
church  was  very  full.  The  Duke  of  Clarence,  Lord  Mayor, 
and  a  goodly  company  of  the  dignitaries  of  the  Church, 
filled  the  seats  of  honor.  Nothing  could  be  more  solemn 
than  the  whole  scene,  and  when  at  parts  of  the  service  the 
whole  congregation  joined  in  the  chant,  the  dome  rung 
with  the  sound,  and  one  almost  looked  to  see  if  the  statues 
around  were  not  roused. 

"  Do  you  fear  that  my  head  is  growing  giddy,  with  all 
this  variety  ?  At  present  there  is  no  danger.  My  thoughts 
turn  too  often  homeward,  to  be  very  much  engrossed  bv 
any  thing  here,  and  my  heart  will  feel  sad  when  I  think  of 
the  time  which  must  elapse  ere  I  see  it  again." 

"^  Broadwater,  Worthing;,  June  11,  1S24. 
"  My  dear  Cousin  :  — 
"  On  Saturday,  the  29th,  I  received   a  letter  from  Dr. 

R saying  that  Leamington  did  not  agree  with  him, 

that  Mrs.  R was  quite  unwell,  and  they  begged,  if  pos- 


VISIT    ABROAD.  105 

■ible,  that  I  would  come  to  them  the  next  day,  with  some 
plan  of  proceeding  for  them,  for  he  felt  wholly  unable  to 

decide  what  to  do.     After  some  debate  with  Mrs.  S 

I  concluded  that  it  was  a  duty  to  give  up  all  my  own  views, 
and  do  what  I  could  for  him,  as  there  was  no  one  else  who 
could  assist  them  in  this  land  of  strangers:  Accordingly  I 
wrote  him  that  I  would  join  them  on  Tuesday,  as  it  was  not 
in  my  power  to  make  such  an  entire  change  in  my  arrange- 
ments before.  I  had  just  prepared  on  Monday  to  start, 
when  another  letter  arrived,  saying  they  should  be  in  Lon- 
don at  night. 

"  We  propose  going  from  here  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and 
round  to  the  western  part  of  England,  Bristol,  Bath,  and 
Wales.  I  hope  on  the  way  to  have  a  peep  at  Mrs.  McAdam, 
who  is  now  at  Plymouth,  for  it  is  rather  tantalizing  for  us 
to  be  kept  so  long  separated.  I  would  not  have  believed 
that  any  thing  would  have  kept  me  so  long  from  my  friends 
after  I  had  found  myself  in  England.  But  it  is  well  to  be 
obliged  to  control  our  selfishness  in  England,  as  elsewhere. 
The  little  I  have  seen  of  my  relations  has  only  increased 
my  desire  to  know  them  and  be  loved  by  them.  My  re- 
ception at  Uncle  Ben's  was  more  like  that  which  I  hope  to 
have  at  home,  than  any  thing  I  could  have  expected  in  this 
strange  land.  He  is  a  warm-hearted  old  man,  with  all  the 
best  of  the  Lovell  feelings  in  full  vigor.  He  was  very 
much  attached  to  my  mother,  and  retains  a  stronger  interest 
in  his  Transatlantic  relations  than  I  could  have  thought  pos- 
sible after  an  absence  of  fifty  years.  He  was  very  much 
overcome  at  seeing  me,  and  wept  over  me  like  a  child. 
They  demand  three  months,  at  least,  from  me,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  not  have  half  that  time  for  them.  You  don't 
know  how  delightful  it  was  to  be  among  people  who  seemed 
80  like  my  own  home  friends." 


106  VISIT    ABROAD. 

'^Broadwater,  June  11,  1824. 
"  My  dear  Ann  :  — 

"  You  have  been  sorely  afflicted  indeed,  doubtless  for 
some  good  purpose.  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  by  your  letter 
that  you  are  disposed  to  view  it  so,  and  improve  by  the 
chastisement.  1  -hope  it  will  lead  the  way  to  a  more  free 
communication  with  our  good  minister.  It  is  a  great  privi- 
lege, and  one  which  ought  to  be  improved.  I  have  learned 
since  I  have  been  here  to  estimate  our  advantages  in  this 
and  all  other  religious  affairs,  as  I  could  never  have  done  at 
home.  In  London,  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  no  more 
connection  between  minister  and  people,  in  the  Established 
Church,  than  if  they  had  no  influence  whatever  to  exercise  ; 
and  among  the  Dissenters  I  have  met  with,  the  case  is  not 
much  better.  They  are  so  scattered,  and  wander  about  so 
much,  that  it  is  difficult  to  have  much  intercourse,  or  keep 
up  much  interest  among  them 

"  I  have  heard  but  one  sermon  since  I  have  been  in  this 
country  which  made  the  least  impression  upon  my  mind, 
and  that  was  from  one  from  whom  I  expected  nothing  that 
would  satisfy  me.  This  was  Mr.  Irving,  whom  Mr.  Chan- 
ning  mentioned  as  the  popular  favorite  in  London.  He  is 
a  most  singular-looking  Scotchman,  a  pupil  of  Dr.  Chal- 
mers, and  now  so  much  the  fashion,  that  tickets  of  admis- 
sion are  sold,  to  enable  those  who  wish  to  hear  him  to  go 
in  before  the  hour  when  the  doors  are  thrown  open.  Even 
in  this  way  it  is  like  the  theatre  of  a  Kean  night,  and  for 
two  hours  before  the  service  commences  the  crowd  is  im- 
mense. His  manner  is  very  like  Kean's,  most  impassioned, 
and  when  he  commenced  1  turned  from  him  in  disgust. 
But  there  was  that  in  the  subject  and  substance  of  the  ser- 
mon which  made  me  forget  the  manner  in  which  it  was 
delivered.  It  was,  I  understood,  one  of  the  least  flowery  ot 
his  productions.      I  shall   never   forget   it,  I   think  ;  but  I 


VISIT    ABROAD.  107 

would  not  be  obliged  to  go  to  such  a  place  for  the  best  ser- 
mons that  ever  were  written.  It  was  just  like  the  theatre  or 
some  great  exhibition. 

"  You  cannot  think  how  I  long,  when  the  Sabbath  comes 
round,  to  have  an  ear  in  Federal  Street.  I  find,  as  Mr. 
Channing  warned  me,  that  travelling  is  a  sad  enemy  to  the 
cultivation  of  religious  knowledge  and  improvement ;  it 
does  so  derange  the  regularity  of  one's  habits  of  thinking 
and  acting.  The  day  is  too  confused,  and  the  nights  too 
wearied.  But  there  is  much  in  the  experience  of  every 
day  to  excite  a  strong  sense  of  gratitude  to  that  Providence 
whose  care  is  extended  over  us  in  all  places  ;  in  the  con- 
sciousness which  we  must  have,  even  when  the  idea  of 
separation  from  those  we  love  presses  most  heavily  upon 
us,  that  there  is  One,  ever  present,  whose  love  for  us  is 
infinite.  Yet  it  is  not  of  feelings  that  I  ought  to  speak ;  1 
could  fill  volumes  with  the  variety  of  thoughts  which  every 
day  suggests,  but  I  am  learning  to  do  without  the  communi- 
cation of  them." 

From  Broadwater  the  party  of  four  went  to  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  and  made  the  usual  circuit,  in  their 
little  open  carriage,  through  that  charming  region, 
"with  nothing  wanting  but  health,  and  with  that 

deficiency   all  was   a  blank."     Dr.  R was   too 

unwell  to  enjoy  any  thing,  and  Mary  herself,  for  a 
wonder,  speaks  of  suffering  from  a  cough  which  she 
had  had  a  month.  But  it  did  not  prevent  her  from 
making  what  she  calls  "  a  break-neck  excursion " 
up  a  precipice  of  about  four  hundred  feet,  at  the 
southern  part  of  the  island.  Of  the  country  she 
gives  a  glowing  description,  for  which  we  have  not 
room      On  leaving  the  island,  Dr.  R found  it 


108  VISIT    ABROAD. 

necessary  to  return  to  Broadwater  for  medical  aa- 
vice,  and  Mary,  who  had  arranged  to  meet  some 
of  her  relations  at  Plymouth  at  this  time,  readily, 
though  not  without  regret,  gave  up  her  own  plans, 
and  went  back  with  the  family  to  Broadwater.  The 
place  had  little  interest  for  her,  and  she  writes  of 
"  useless  idleness "  as  a  new  thing  to  her,  and  un- 
comfortable. But  others  did  not  think  her  presence 
useless,  nor  did  she  fail  to  find  employment.  From 
the  wife  of  the  clergyman,  who  had  lately  established 
schools  in  the  parish  on  a  new  plan,  she  learned  a 
good  deal  of  the  national  system  of  education.  Af- 
ter a  short  time,  Dr.  R determined  to  go  to  Paris, 

and  she  accompanied  him.  But  of  Paris  itself  she 
saw  very  little,  being  chiefly  devoted  to  the  care  of 
her  friend.  And  except  for  him,  she  had  no  wish  to 
be  there.  "  It  may  seem  strange,"  she  writes,  "  that 
I  should  not  wish  to  see  Paris,  but  the  pleasure  of 
every  thing  depends  upon  the  circumstances  which 
immediately  surround  us.  Yet  I  am  very  glad  I 
came,  for,  though  I  cajinot  be  of  much  use,  any  one 
is  better  than  none." 

Their  stay  in   Paris  was  short.     In  view  of  all 

considerations,  Dr.  E, found  it  best  to  return  at 

once  to  America,  and  sailed  that  same  month  from 
Havre,  Mary  remaining  to  make  her  visit  to  her 
friends  in  England.  Her  next  letters  are  from  Chat- 
ham. 

"Qiatham,  September  7,  1824. 
"  My  dear  Ann  :  — 

"  You  may  easily  suppose  that  my  sensations  at  leaving 

Havre  were  not  the  most  cheering.     I  knew  that  I  could 


VISIT    ABROAD.  109 

have  been  of  but  little  comfort  to  our  friends  on  the  voyage, 
but  I  could  not  help  wishing  that  it  had  been  so  ordered  that 
I  might  have  returned  with  them.  There  was  something,  too, 
so  very  lonely  in  the  idea  of  being  left  in  a  strange  land, 
with  no  chance  of  escape  for  a  certain  length  of  time,  even 
if  my  friends  should  take  it  into  their  heads  to  dislike  me  ; 
and  worse  than  all,  under  my  own  sole  direction,  to  govern 
myself  and  my  actions  only  by  my  own  judgment.  Indeed, 
I  did  feel  as  though  I  should  almost  shrink  from  the  effort  it 
required ;  but  this  did  not  trouble  me  long.  I  thought  of 
the  mercies  of  my  past  life,  the  great  goodness  and  pre- 
serving care  which  had  hitherto  upheld  me  in  many  times 
of  danger  and  difficulty.  The  night  was  a  most  beautiful 
one,  and  the  very  motion  of  the  little  vessel  recalled  so 
much  which  had  once  given  me  support  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, that  my  mind  seemed  to  acquire  a  degree  of 
calmness  and  firmness  which  was  almost  sublime.  For  this 
I  have  great  cause  of  gratitude  ;  it  was  the  gift  of  a  Powei 
mightier  than  I,  and  prepared  me  for  the  coming  danger. 
We  were  two  nights  and  a  day  crossing  to  Southampton, 
about  twice  the  usual  length  of  the  passage,  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  in  a  violent  storm  and  most  dangerous  situ- 
ation. I  suffered  more  from  sickness  than  in  crossing  the 
Atlantic,  but  met  with  very  great  attention  from  the  ladies 
who  were  in  the  same  state-room,  and  much  entertainment 
beside ;  but  I  never  was  more  rejoiced  than  when  I  found 
myself  in  a  clean  bed  on  terra  firma^  upon  the  second 
morning. 

"  My  first  attempt  at  journeying  alone  was  a  very  en- 
couraging one.  A  good  old  clergyman  was  my  companion, 
and  after  three  weeks  in  France,  I  assure  you,  I  enjoyed 
any  thing  like  serious  conversation  ;  though  he  happened 
to  be  a  Methodist,  he  was  a  rational  and  learned  one,  and 
I  believe  I  learned  much  that  was  useful  from  him.  I  had 
10 


110 


VISIT    ABROAD. 


apprised  my  good  cousin  of  my  intended  descent  upon  her 
family,  and  was  received  with  open  arms  and  much  kind 
greeting  by  all  her  flock.  Here  I  am,  then,  at  last,  and  I 
know  you  are  impatient  to  know  all  about  them,  and  the 

place  in  which  they  live.     Mrs.  S is  in  appearance  but 

the  shadow  of  what  she  was  when  her  picture  was  taken. 
Trouble  and  age  have  made  her  thin  and  pale.  But  the 
perfect  symmetry  of  her  pretty  little  figure,  and  the  bright- 
ness of  her  still  beautiful  eyes,  enable  one  to  see  in  her  the 
remains  of  one  of  nature's  fairest  works.  Her  naturally 
good  spirits  are  almost  wholly  subdued  by  the  trials  and 
perplexities  which  have  followed  her  in  constant  succession 
for  many  years,  and  ill  health  and  an  anxious  mind  have 
created  a  disposition  to  despondency  which  even  her  piety 
cannot  at  all  times  overcome.  This  has  unfitted  her  for 
great  exertion,  and,  not  possessing  much  natural  force  of 
character,  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  make  much  effort  even 
for  herself.  She  is  all  gentleness,  and  full  of  affectionate 
feeling,  and  I  often  think,  in  looking  at  her  in  her  happiest 
moments,  that  she  would  be  a  good  personification  of  Shak- 
speare's  Patience  smiling  at  Grief.  Her  situation  here  is 
that  of  matron  to  the  hospital,  but  it  is  almost  a  nominal 
office,  a  perfect  sinecure,  for  she  has  scarcely  any  duty, 
and  a  comfortable  income.  She  is  now  peculiarly  tried, 
and  seems  to  consider  it  an  especial  mercy  that  she  has 
one  to  whom  she  can  turn  in  her  loneliness  with  something 
like  a  claim  for  sympathy. 

" There  is  a  small  Unitarian  chapel  here,  and 

cousin   N will  say,   '  Why  do  you  not  go  to  that  ? 

Merely  because  I  found  out  but  yesterday  that  there  was 
such  an  one  ;  hearing  a  lady  say,  '  We  ought  to  tolerate  all 
denominations  but  those  dangerous  enemies  to  religion,  the 
Unitarians, —  1  cannot  pass  their  chapel  without  shuddering,' 
—  next  Sunday  I  shall  endeavor  to  ascertain  the  grounds  of 


VISIT    ABROAD.  Ill 

this  pious  hatred.  But  in  truth,  if  I  had  not  learned  liberal- 
ity before,  I  have  had  experience  enough  to  teach  it  to 
me  since  I  have  been  in  this  country,  I  have  met  with  so 
many  good  Christians,  of  such  a  variety  of  sects  ;  and  found 
tliat  the  bond  of  union  created  by  a  mutual  desire  to  aid  in 
the  cause  of  benevolence  was  sufficient  to  excite  interest, 
without  any  regard  to  different  creeds  or  doctrinal  points. 

"  I  am  constantly  hearing  now  from  all  my  little  circle 
of  relations,  who  seem  determined  to  prevent  my  feeling 
alone,  if  their  attentions  can  prevent  it.  Do  not  suspect 
me  of  vanity  in  mentioning  all  these  attentions ;  this  is  not 
the  case,  for  the  effect  is  rather  humbling,  and  I  fear  when 
they  know  me  better  they  will  find  a  poor  return  for  it  all ; 
but  I  do  feel  such  gratitude  for  so  many  unlooked  for,  un- 
deserved blessings,  that  I  want  you  all  to  know  it,  that  you 
too  may  unite  with  me  in  thanksgiving  to  God  for  his 
watchful  care  of  me,  a  solitary  orphan  in  a  foreign  land. 

"  September  14.  The  day  after  I  wrote  the  above,  I 
received  a  letter  from  Mr,  and  Mrs.  C ,  then  at  Rams- 
gate,  a  town  upon  the  eastern  shore  of  Kent,  saying  that 
they  were  making  a  short  tour,  and  had  intended  coming 
to  Chatham  to  see  me  on  their  way  home,  but  thinking 
I  might  like  to  see  Dover  and  its  castle,  proposed  that  1 
should  join  them  there,  and  pass  a  few  days  with  them. 
So,  without  hesitation,  I  got  into  one  of  the  many  coaches 
which  daily  pass  through  Chatham,  and  in  six  hours  was 
with  them.  The  ride  was  delightful,  through  a  richly 
wooded  and  highly  cultivated  country,  the  fine  old  city  of 
Canterbury,  and  a  number  of  pretty  towns.  My  compan- 
ions in  the  coach  were  very  genteel,  intelligent  people,  and 
I  was  quite  pleased  with  finding  that  it  was  a  very  custom- 
ary thing  for  a  lady  to  travel  inside  a  coach  without  escort; 
I  wiSi\ed  it  were  equally  so  to  travel  outside,  I  do  so  much 


112  VISIT    ABROAD. 

prefer  to  see  all  I  can.  This  was  on  Thursday  last,  the 
9th,  and  I  remained  with  them  until  to-day,  receiving  every 
attention  and  kindness  from  them,  and  much  satisfaction 
from  seeing  the  place 

"  I  returned  here  to-day.  My  cousin  was  to  have  met 
me  at  Canterbury,  but  was  prevented  by  the  weather.  I 
rode  the  greater  part  of  the  way  alone,  inside,  though  the 
outside  was  full ;  and  you  may  tell  Mary  that  my  thoughts 
were  often  turned  to  her ;  for  a  guideboard  with  the  name 
of  *  Milton '  upon  it  reminded  me  of  my  shameful  neglect  of 
our  sweet  tune  of  that  name,  I  had  not  once  sung  it  since 
I  left  her,  and  found  full  employment  for  some  miles  in 
trying  to  bring  it  to  mind  ;  and  it  was  not  until  after  recall- 
ing her  looks  and  voice,  and  beating  three  strokes  in  a  bar, 
over  and  over  again,  to  try  the  power  of  association,  that  I 
could  bring  it  to  my  recollection.  But  I  sung  it  enough, 
when  I  did  get  it,  to  make  up  for  all  past  deficiencies.  It 
carried  me  back  to  last  winter,  and  all  your  happy  family, 
so  fully,  that  my  empty  coach  was  soon  peopled,  and  I  had 
as  pleasant  a  ride  as  need  be. 

"  I  had  the  gratification  of  seeing  the   famous  actress, 

Mrs.  Siddons,  at  Dover,  —  a  rare  sight  indeed  ;  she  is  a 

wonderfully  handsome  woman  for  her  age,  living  in  elegant 

retirement,  in  handsome  style. 

"  Mary." 

"Chatham,  October  4,  1824. 

"  My  dear  Cousin  :  — 
"  I  am  delighted  that  Mr.  Gannett  pleases  you  all,  and  to 
hear  such  good  accounts  of  Mr.  Channing.  The  very  idea 
of  a  lettei*  from  him  was  almost  too  much  for  my  poor 
brain  ;  the  reality  would  overpower  me,  I  believe.  I 
greatly  fear,  unless  the  spring  should  bring  me  some  kind 
American  friend  with  whom  I  can  travel,  that  I  shall  see 
little  more  of  England.  But  I  will  be  satisfied,  at  any  rate, 
if  I  can  but  find  the  means  of  seeing  my  poor  aunt  S . 


VISIT    ABROAD.  113 

"  The  return  of  this  season  brings  so  forcibly  to  my 
mind  the  recollection  of  the  trying  events  of  which  it  is  the 
anniversary,  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  prevent  myself  from 
dwelling  too  much  upon  it.  I  would  not  lose  the  remem- 
brance of  it,  for  every  hour  of  that  time  was  filled  with 
valuable  experience  of  the  goodness  and  loving-kindnessi 
of  my  Heavenly  Father.  I  love  to  dwell  upon  it,  and  re- 
call every  act  of  the  many  fi-iends  who  then  surrounded 
me  with  renewed  feelings  of  gratitude  towards  them.  May 
I  yet  be  enabled  to  prove  in  my  actions  what  I  cannot  ex- 
press in  words. 

«  Mary." 

Mary  Pickard  is  now  among  her  kindred,  those 
relatives  of  her  father  whom  she  had  so  long  de- 
sired to  know,  and  whom  she  hoped  in  some  way 
to  benefit.  For  her  idea  of  conferring  benefits  was 
never  defined  by  the  thought  of  wealth,  or  excluded 
by  the  want  of  it.  That  she  gave  most  liberally, 
according  to  her  means,  at  this  very  time,  we  learn 
from  others ;  her  letters  would  never  suggest  it.  In 
other  and  better  ways,  by  most  unexpected  oppor- 
tunities, did  she  render  service  to  many  before  she 
left  England,  where  her  stay  was  greatly  prolonged 
beyond  the  first  intention,  for  this  very  purpose. 
For  ten  weeks  she  remained  in  Chatham  ;  and 
though  she  does  not  say  it,  we  infer  from  other  in- 
timations that  much  of  that  time  was  occupied  with 
the  care  of  the  sick,  or  in  relieving  some  kind  of 
trouble.  It  is  in  reference  to  Chatham  that  she 
says,  "  I  am  fated  to  find  trouble  wherever  I  go,"  — 
which  is  true  of  all  who  are  willing  to  take  trouble, 
that  they  may  relieve  others. 
10* 


114  VISIT    ABROAD. 

From  Chatham  Mary  went  to  Waltham  Abbeys 
and  passed  three  weeks  with  the  son  of  the  only 
surviving  brother  of  James  Lovell.  And  in  Decem- 
ber, unwilling  to  be  detained  longer  from  the  cousin 
to  whom  she  designed  to  make  one  of  her  chief 
visits  in  England,  and  finding  that  sickness  in  the 
family  prevented  any  one  from  coming  for  her,  she 
took  the  coach  alone,  leaving  London  before  day- 
light and  riding  to  Salisbury,  where  some  of  her 
friends  met  her,  and  conducted  her  to  their  home  at 
"  Burcombe  House,"  in  that  vicinity.  And  there  she 
spent  the  next  three  or  four  months,  in  a  way  that 
her  letters  will  best  tell.  These  letters  we  give  as 
we  find  them,  without  excluding  the  personal  allu- 
sions and  occasional  descriptions  of  character  ;  since 
it  is  in  just  such  descriptions,  natural  and  easy,  that 
we  best  read  the  mind  of  the  writer  and  of  those 
whom  she  portrays,  as  well  as  the  features  and 
ways  of  a  common  English  household.  And  should 
these  letters  chance  to  fall  under  the  eye  of  any  to 
whom  they  allude,  if  any  still  survive,  we  trust  they 
will  pardon  a  liberty  which  exposes  nothing  that  is 
not  to  their  honor. 

"  Burcombe  House,  December  8,  1824. 

"  Congratulate  me,  my  good  friends,  that  I  am  at  last 
under  this  roof,  and  have  seen  cousin  Jane  and  all  her  dear 
family.  I  left  London  at  five  o'clock  on  Saturday,  the 
4th,  and  I  found  myself  at  Salisbury  at  three  o'clock,  not 
at  all  fatigued.  Cousin  Jane  and  her  son  came  to  meet 
me ;  but  as  their  carriage  was  from  home,  they  were  in  an 
open  gig,  and  we  thought  it  expedient  to  take  a  postchaise, 
as  Burcombe  is  five  miles  from   the  town.     But  before  I 


VISIT    ABKOAD.  115 

proceed  to  the  events  of  my  ride,  I  must  tell  you  something 
of  my  cousin,  as  I  know  you  are  wishing  to  hear  how  she 
received  me.  Our  meeting  was  just  what  you  could  easily 
imagine  it  would  be,  knowing  her  to  be  a  person  of  ardent 
feelings,  strongly  attached  to  her  dear  uncle,  and  ;nnse- 
quently  determined  to  love  his  daughter,  let  her  be  what 
she  might ;  and  after  the  frequent  disappointments  we  have 
had,  with  regard  to  meeting,  we  both  had  an  almost  super- 
stitious fear  that  something  might  yet  happen  to  separate  us. 
But  we  were  at  last  together,  and,  if  it  took  us  both  some 
time  to  realize  it,  we  were  not  the  less  rejoiced  to  find  it 
true.  She  has  suffered  much,  and  it  has  subdued  her  mind 
and  spirits,  and  softened  her  manners.  She  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  entertaining  women  I  ever  saw,  and  one 
of  the  most  interesting.  She  has  strong  powers  of  mind, 
and  of  course  strong  passions,  warm-hearted,  enthusiastic, 
prone  to  extremes,  almost  without  restraint  in  youth,  and 
the  sport  of  adverse  circumstances  through  life,  ignorant  of 
the  only  sure  Guide  to  direct  and  guard  the  soul  under  the 
temptations  to  which  such  trials  subject  it.  Imagine,  then, 
what  such  a  mind  must  be  when  brought  by  suffering  to  a 
deep  sense  of  religious  obligation,  turning  all  its  energies  to 
the  accomplishment  of  good  to  others  and  the  subjection  of 
self,  not  content  with  feehng  until  every  feeling  leads  to 
active  exertion, — and  you  have  my  dear  cousin  before  you. 
You  will  not  be  surprised  that  I  should  already  dearly  love 
her,  and  feel  that  it  was  worth  coming  so  far  to  know  and 
give  her  pleasure.  Her  mind  is  just  in  that  state  which 
requires  free  discussion  upon  subjects  of  faith  and  practice, 
and  shut  out  as  she  is  here  from  society,  and  almost  wholly 
without  ministerial  instruction,  she  suffers  from  the  want  of 
a  companion  who  feels  a  like  interest  in  the  matter.  How 
often  do  I  wish  for  her  the  same  privileges  which  I  have 
had  in  Mr.  Channing,  or  that  you,  my  dear  cousin,  could 


116  VISIT    ABROAD. 

Step  in  and  pour  forth  a  little  from  your  fund  of  knowl- 
edge. 

"  But  I  have  digressed  vastly  from  my  tale.  To  return 
to  the  inn  at  Salisbury.  We  soon  seated  ourselves  in  a 
chaise,  trunks,  boxes,  and  all,  and  were  driving  on  at  a 
furious  rate  towards  Burcombe  House,  when,  lo  !  in  a 
qu'.et  lane,  a  mile  at  least  from  any  houses,  the  axle  of  the 
front  wheels  gave  way  ;  off  went  one  wheel,  and  down 
went  we,  just  at  dark,  and  the  rain  falling  in  torrents.  We 
soon  found  it  .was  only  a  subject  for  laughter  ;  we  had  but 
one  resource,  which  was  to  send  the  postboy  back  to  Salis- 
bury for  another  coach,  and  to  sit  quietly  in  the  broken  one 
until  he  returned.  We  had  not,  however,  sat  long,  before 
Lord  Pembroke's  carriage  came  to  our  relief;  it  had  passed 
us  full  at  the  commencement  of  our  disaster,  and  was  sent 
back  to  take  us  home,  or  to  Wilton  House.  As  we  did  not 
like  to  take  all  the  baggage  with  us,  we  left  it  in  the  care 
of  a  servant,  and,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  cold,  we  proceeded 
to  my  Lord's  house.  I  could  not  but  be  amused,  that  my 
first  introduction  to  this  region  should  be  to  Wilton  House, 
in  an  Earl's  carriage.  I  was  not  sorry  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  a  place  of  which  I  have  heard  so  much, 
and  should  have  been  quite  pleased  to  have  seen  the  great 
folks  themselves ;  but  they  chanced  to  be  dressing  for  din- 
ner, and  as  our  chaise  soon  came  up  for  us,  I  had  but  little 
time  to  survey  the  place.  The  house  is  filled  with  pic- 
tures, statues,  and  ancient  armor.  I  hope  to  have  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  it  more  leisurely. 

"  This  whole  family  gave  me  a  most  hearty  welcome, 
and  I  found  that  it  would  be  my  own  fault  if  I  was  not 
loved  by  them,  and  happy  with  them.  Jane  has,  indeed,  a 
remarkably  fine  family,  of  steady  principles  and  habits,  and 
sufficiently  accomplished  to  be  agreeable  and  well  fitted  foi 
society.     This  is  a  very  retired  spot,  and  except  a  call  from 


VISIT    ABROAD.  117 

Lord  and  Lady  Pembroke  when  they  are  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, or  a  visit  from  some  travelling  acquaintance,  scarcely 
any  one  enters  the  house  except  the  family. 

" The  state  of  the  poor  in   this  country  is  so 

very  different  from  any  thing  we  see  at  home,  that  I  can 
scarcely  give  you  any  idea  of  the  striking  difference  every- 
where observable  in  their  manners  and  habits.  The  im- 
mense sum  which  is  collected  for  their  support,  under  the 
form  of  poor  rates,  must  lessen  their  exertion  for  them- 
selves, and  the  very  dependence  which  is  thus  created 
makes  them  servile.  Some  great  man  owns  the  village 
and  lands  about  it,  his  steward  lets  them  to  farmers,  and 
of  course  it  depends  upon  sundry  contingencies  whether 
they  retain  possession  even  during  life  ;  and  how  can  they 
feel  as  much  interest  as  if  it  were  their  own  freehold,  and 
they  knew  their  children  would  reap  the  benefit  of  their 
improvements  upon  it  ?  " 

"  Burcombe  House,  December  31,  1824, 
Half  past  Eleven. 
"  My  dear  Friend  :  — 
"  This  hour  has  for  so  many  years  found  me  at  my  desk 
pouring  forth  to  you,  that,  although  in  a  new  hemisphere 
and  under  new  influences,  I  instinctively  turn  to  the  pen 
and  ink,  with  a  feeling  that  something  remains  to  be  done 
before  the  old  year  can  be  allowed  to  take  its  departure.  I 
am  not,  as  I  was  wont  to  be,  seated  quietly  alone  by  my 
'  ain  fireside,'  cogitating  upon  the  past,  and,  for  the  only 
time  m  the  twelve  months,  daring  to  look  forward  and  hope 
for  the  future.  It  is  the  custom  here  for  all  the  family  to 
sit  out  the  old  year,  and  I  am  in  the  parlor,  surrounded  by 
the  whole  tribe.  On  one  side  is  my  cousin's  eldest  daugh- 
ter, playing  '  God  save  the  King'  as  if  all  possibility  of  ever 
doing  it  again  was  going  with  the  year  ;  on  the  other,  an 
animated  Miss  C ,  acting  the  old-maid  aunt,  giving  her 


118  VISIT    ABROAD. 

nephews  and  nieces  sage  advice  upon  the  occasion,  who 
are  all  laughing  most  heartily.  In  fact,  the  whole  house  is 
in  a  bustle ;  so  you  need  not  expect  a  very  connected  epis- 
tle, as  I  am  obliged  to  turn  to  one  or  the  other,  every  other 
word,  to  join  in  the  merriment. 

"  The  changes  which  the  past  year  has  made  in  my  life 
are  so  amazing,  when  I  view  them  in  a  body,  that  I  cannot 
but  be  astonished  that  we  should  ever  attempt  to  look  for- 
ward with  any  thing  like  calculation  or  plan.  You  can 
easily  conceive  that  the  contrast  between  this  night  and  its 
past  anniversary  is  enough  to  excite  the  few  nerves  I  have  ; 
and  you  will  not  at  all  wonder,  that,  whatever  attractions 
there  may  be  around  me,  thought  will  wander  back  to  home 
and  its  interests,  and  it  requires  some  effort  to  restrain  my 
impatience  to  be  again  restored  to  them,  that  I  may  make 
up,  if  possible,  for  my  abuse  of  some  of  them.  Yet  do  not 
imagine  me  discontented  or  homesick ;  I  am  not  in  the 
least,  for  every  hour's  experience  makes  me  rejoice  that  I 
am  here  ;  and,  if  kindness  and  attention  could  make  up  for 
old  acquaintance,  I  could  be  as  contented  to  pass  my  life 
here  as  anywhere.  I  would  not  return  without  seeing  and 
doing  all  that  may  be  in  my  power ;  but  that  I  do  look  for- 
ward with  a  feeling  of  desire,  such  as  I  never  knew  before', 
to  the  period  when,  all  this  being  accomplished,  I  shall  find 
myself  again  at  home,  it  would  be  folly  to  deny.  But  this 
is  just  what  I  expected  to  feel,  and  of  course  was  prepared 
for  with  some  degree  of  firmness  ;  and  when  thus  prepared, 
it  is  astonishing  how  indifferently  we  go  through  with  what, 
under  any  other  circumstances,  would  destroy  one's  self- 
possession  entirely.  The  greatest  evil  I  find  in  this  state 
of  constant  preparation  for  enduring  is,  that  I  am  getting 
into  a  quiescent  state  of  inaction ;  not  being  quite  enough 
at  ease  to  exert  my  own  powers  freely,  I  am  losing  that 
activity  of  mind  which  I  rather  hoped  to  increase.     But  I 


VISIT    ABROAD.  119 

have  "long  since  learned  that  youthful  habits  are  not  easily 
displaced,  and  I  am  sure  now  that  I  never  shall  learn  to  be 
loquacious.  You  know  how  much  I  felt  the  inconvenience 
of  my  silent  habits  at  home,  and  will  readily  believe  that  I 
must  suffer  still  more  among  strangers,  with  whom  agree- 
ability  is  a  necessary  passport. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  written  you,  that  I  scarcely 
know  where  to  take  up  the  thread  of  my  discourse.  I  was 
then,  I  believe,  at  Dover,  and  you  probably  have  learned 
from  my  letters  to  Boston  how  much  I  found  to  please  mc 
in  my  cousin's  family  at  Chatham.  It  was  my  good  fortuno 
to  have  it  in  my  power  to  be  of  some  service  to  them,  and 
I  assure  you  I  was  most  thankful  for  any  opportunity  of  re- 
deeming my  time  from  entire  uselessriess.  I  am  fated  to 
find  trouble  wherever  I  go,  and  ought  to  be  truly  grateful 
when  it  is  such  as  I  can  relieve.  I  staid  ten  weeks  at  Chat- 
ham, and  went  then  to  Waltham  Abbey,  about  sixteen  miles 
from  London,  and  spent  three  weeks  with  George  Lovell 
and  his  most  lovely  wife.  He  is  the  son  of  the  only  re 
maining  brother  of  my  grandfather,  with  all  the  warmth 
and  generosity  which  characterized  the  family  in  America. 
He  unites  good  judgment  and  firm  principles,  an  uncom- 
mon versatility  of  talent,  and  consequent  power  of  pleasing. 

"  I  came  here  upon  the  4th  of  December ;  and  if  I  have 
ever  told  you  enough  of  cousin  Jane  and  her  concerns  to 
•give  you  any  idea  of  the  strong  interest  I  have  always  felt 
in  her,  you  will  fully  understand  how  intense  was  the  ex- 
citement of  my  mind  when  I  found  myself  at  last  approach- 
ing her  mansion.  She  had  been  the  greatest  attraction  to 
me  on  this  side  of  the  water,  indeed  the  principal  object  of 
my  visit ;  the  constant  impediments  which  had  prevented 
our  meeting  during  the  past  summer  of  course  increased 
our  interest  and  impatience  about  it,  and  I  can  scarcely  tell 
whether  pain  or  pleasure  predominated  when  I  felt  that  the 


120  VISIT    ABROAD. 

crisis  was  near  which  would  decide  how  far  it  was  well 

that  I  had  come She  has  had  a  life  of  trial,  and 

being  without  that  only  comforter  under  suffering  which 
can  teach  us  to  submit  patiently  to  it,  the  effect  has  been 
unhappy.  And  now  that  she  is  just  awaking  from  her 
dream  of  darkness,  you  can  easily  conceive  that  the  effect 
of  the  bright  sunshine  which  is  breaking  upon  her  mind 
should  be  most  powerful,  and  apt  to  carry  such  a  mind  to 
the  extreme  of  enthusiasm.  She  has  but  few  connections, 
and  almost  idolized  my  father  as  the  guardian  of  her  youth, 
and  therefore  inclined  to  extend  to  his  child  all  the  strong 
affection  she  felt  for  him,  so  that  her  delight  at  seeing  me 
was  little  short  of  mine  to  be  with  her.  Here,  then,  I  am 
enjoying  much  with  her  and  her  family. 

"  The  house  itself  is  one  of  those  ancient  stone  edifices 
which  abound  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom,  in  connection 
with  the  houses  of  the  great ;  probably  built  for  some 
younger  and  less  affluent  branches  of  the  family.  The 
grounds  are  laid  out  with  taste,  and  the  lawn  behind  it  has 
not  probably  been  disturbed  since  the  house  was  built,  and 
is  covered  with  a  turf  which  might  rival  velvet  in  beauty. 
The  fir-trees,  elms,  and  walnuts  which  surround  it,  and  the 
yew  hedge  which  divides  the  garden  from  it,  all  speak  its 
antiquity  and  add  to  its  loveliness.  We  have  no  neighbors ; 
but  the  occasional  visits  of  the  different  branches  of  the 
family  give  us  some  variety." 

"  Burcombe  House,  January  1,  1825. 
"  My  dear  Mary  :  — 
"  A  happy  new  year  to  you,  and  all  the  good  people  at 
Marlborough  House,  South  Street,  Newton,  and  Canton  ! 
Although  I  cannot  have  the  pleasure,  as  I  had  at  this  time 
last  year,  of  waking  you  out  of  a  sound  sleep  upon  the  oc- 
casion, I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  thinking  of  you  almost 


VISIT    ABROAD.  121 

all  the  night,  and  wishing  you  in  my  heart  all  possible 
blessings  during  the  year  upon  which  we  have  entered.  I 
do  not  dare  to  look  forward,  but  I  cannot  help  hoping  that 
it  may  witness  my  return  to  you,  to  find  you  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  all  that  is  worth  possessing  in  life.  It  is  the  custom 
here  to  sit  out  the  old  year,  and  as  we  were  expecting  Mr. 
McAdam  and  William  home  last  night,  we  determined  to 
sit  up  for  them.  They  did  not  arrive  until  nearly  five  this 
morning,  so  that  I  had  time  enough  to  reflect  upon  the  past 
and  hope  for  the  future ;  and  every  thought  and  action  of 
the  last  anniversary  were  lived  over  again  in  full  reality. 
I  only  wanted  liberty  to  pour  forth  to  some  one,  to  be  a 
most  eloquent  egotist;  but  as  it  was,  I  just  thought  on  quiet- 
ly to  '  my  ain  sel,'  and  enjoyed  what  was  going  on  around 
me  as  well  as  I  could. 

"  Our  only  neighbor  is  the  farmer's  wife,  a  most  excel- 
lent woman  of  sixty,  one  of  the  old  primitive  people  of  the 
country,  of  good  sense  and  sound  judgment,  just  such  a 

body  as  cousin  N would  delight  in.     Her  husband  is 

the  church-warden,  overseer  of  the  poor,  and  indeed  the 
principal  man  in  all  parish  concerns  ;  and  their  goodness 
to  the  cottagers  makes  them  beloved  by  all.  You  may  im- 
agine Mrs.  L as  about  dear  aunty's  size,  of  pale  com- 
plexion like  her,  white  hair,  just  parted  under  a  neat  white 
cap,  always  surmounted  with  a  neat  black-satin  bonnet, 
stuff  gown,  made  as  grandma  used  to  wear  hers,  with  a 
plain  double  muslin  neckerchief  within  and  a  black  or 
calico  shawl  outside,  and  a  full  linen  apron,  as  white  as 
the  snow  itself.  Her  face  is  all  benevolence,  and  her 
voice,  even  with  the  broad  provincial  pronunciation  of  the 
coantry,  sweet  and  musical.  They  have  a  large  family  of 
sons  and  daughters  ;  one  of  the  former,  a  very  interesting 
yo mg  man,  is  now  going  in  a  consumption.  It  is  the  best 
specimen  of  an  English  farmer's  family  that  I  have  yet  seen. 
11 


122  VISIT    ABROAD. 

"  I  went  on  Christmas  day  to  the  Cathedral  at  Sah'sbury. 
It  is  a  very  fine  building,  and  the  part  appropriated  to  the 
services  of  the  church  is  fitted  up  in  a  much  better  style 
than  any  thing  I  have  seen,  being  of  black  oak,  and  in  uni- 
son with  the  style  of  the  building.  The  organ  is  a  remark- 
ably fine  one,  and  I  think  I  never  felt  music  more  powerful 
than  the  first  symphony,  played  as  the  bishop  and  clergy- 
men entered.  It  was  at  first  so  soft,  that  in  that  immense 
building  it  seemed  rather  as  if  it  were  the  sound  of  the  air 
Itself  than  any  earthly  creation  ;  and  as  the  tones  swelled, 
the  very  building  trembled,  and  one  involuntarily  held  the 
breath  with  awe." 

"  Burcombe  House,  February  24,  1825. 
"  My  dear  Cousin  :  — 
"  The  winter  months  have  passed  very  quickly,  and,  as 
spring  approaches,  I  begin  to  look  forward  with  much 
anxiety  to  the  period  when,  having  completed  all  for  which 
I  came,  I  may  prepare  to  return  to  my  beloved  home,  and 
join  again  the  many  dear  friends  I  may  find  there.  I  thank 
God  that  he  has  been  pleased  to  spare  so  many  of  them  for 
such  a  length  of  time,  for  it  is  remarkable  that  among  so 
large  a  circle  there  should  have  been  so  few  changes  in 
ten  long  months.  You  cannot  conceive  of  the  gratitude 
which  I  feel  whenever  I  hear  from  you,  for  you  know  not 
the  anxiety  which  the  consciousness  of  being  at  such  a  dis- 
tance inevitably  excites.  I  know  not  why  it  is,  for  were  I 
ever  so  near,  I  could  do  nothing  to  save  even  one  of  the 
least  of  them  all ;  but  so  it  is,  and  it  is  a  greater  exercise 
of  reliance  and  trust  than  I  could  have  ever  known,  had  I 
not  left  you.  I  try  to  look  forward  without  fear,  and  I 
never  doubt  that,  whatever  trials  may  be  in  store  for  me, 
it  will  be  in  mercy  that  they  will  come,  and  I  will  be  patient 
and  submissive. 


VISIT    ABROAD.  123 

"With  regard  to  the  probable  time  of  my  return,  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  speak  with  any  certainty.  The  first 
four  months  that  I  was  in  England  were  lost,  so  far  as  the 
accomplishment  of  the  immediate  object  for  which  I  came 
was  concerned  ;  and  it  retarded  my  progress  more  than 
that  time,  as  it  is  impossible  to  do  as  much  in  winter  as 
might  be  done  in  half  the  time  in  summer.  I  do  not  speak 
of  this  as  regretting  it,  for  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  was  for 
some  good  object  that  I  was  so  employed  ;  and  I  saw  much 
which  I  should  not  have  otherwise  seen  at  all.  But  it 
makes  it  necessary  that  I  should  prolong  my  stay  here,  in 
order  to  do  even  what  I  calculated  upon  when  I  named  a 
year  for  the  probable  limit  of  my  absence.  In  addition  to 
this,  many  objects  of  interest  have  been  presented  to  me 
of  which  I  knew  nothing,  and  peculiar  circumstances  have 
occurred  since  I  have  been  here  to  make  me  desirous  of 
remaining  longer  than  I  had  anticipated.  For  I  consider 
myself  a  sort  of  isolated,  unconnected  being,  who,  having 
no  immediate  duties  in  life,  is  bound  to  improve  all  oppor- 
tunities of  usefulness  which  may  offer  themselves." 

In  April  Mary  received  the  welcome  intelligence 
that  her  very  dear  friend,  E.  P.  F.,  from  America, 
had  arrived  in  Liverpool.  Being  at  this  time  at 
Ash,  Surrey,  the  residence  of  her  father's  uncle,  she 

immediately  arranged  to   meet  E in    London, 

making,  as  she  says,  "  a  desperate  effort "  to  break 
away  from  her  friends  at  Burcombe  House,  to  whom 
she  had  become  so  strongly  attached  as  to  make  it 
no  easy  matter,  as  we  may  believe  there  was  some 
attachment  on  the  other  side  also.  Again  and  again 
was  she  constrained  to  alter  her  plans  and  defer 
her  purpose  of  returning,  by  the  entreaties  of  those 


124  VISIT    ABROAD. 

whom  she  wished  to  gratify,  and  who  urged  upon 
her,  when  other  arguments  failed,  one  that  was  un- 
answerable; namely,  that  she  had  no  dutij  to  call  her 
home.  With  sadness  did  she  admit  it,  and  nobly 
too.  "  I  feel  that  I  have  many  ties  which  have  to 
me  the  force  of  duties,  in  drawing  me  back ;  but  I 
cannot  forget  that  I  am  indeed  without  bond  of  any 
kind  in  life  which  can  be  called  peculiar  duty." 

The  two  friends  met  in  London,  and,  after  a  few 
days  of  delightful  interview,  Mary  was  called  to 
Sydenham,  where  are  dated  two  letters,  from  which 
we  take  portions,  referring  to  widely  different  sub- 
jects and  scenes. 

"SydenJiam,  June,  1825. 
"  Dear  Emma  :  — 

•'  It  is  so  evident,  from  many  circumstances  of  which 

you  must  be  fully  sensible,  that  this  is  an  appointment  by 

that  Providence  who   guides   even  the   sparrows   in  their 

course,  that  you  have  only  to  seek  to  fulfil  its  duties  to  the 

best  of  your  powers,  and  humbly  leave  the  event  in  His 

hands  without  whose   blessing   the  best  endeavors  of  the 

mightiest  must  be   inefTectual.     Do   not   be  thinking  how 

much  more  this  or  that  one  might  have  done  ;  we  should 

do  what  we  can  for  the  sake  of  obeying  God,  not  for  our 

pleasure  ;  and  acting  from  this  motive,  we  may  learn  to  be 

'  willing  even  to  be  useless,'  if  it  be  His  will.     This  may 

seem  more  than  the  Gospel  requires,  but  I  believe,  if  we 

knew  ourselves  thoroughly,  we  should  ever  be  suspicious 

of  all   feelings  which   led   to   personal   comparisons.     We 

should,  as  you  say,  be   thankful   for   the    one   talent,  not 

dissatisfied   that  we   have    not  the   many,  knowing  that  we 

may  please  God,  and  accomplish  the  end  of  our  being  in 

the  one  case  as  well  as  in  the  other.     And  as  it  regards 


VISIT    ABROAD.  125 

the  good  we  may  do,  do  we  not  often  see  Him  using  feeble 
means  to  effect  great  ends  ?  At  all  events,  it  is  our  duty 
to  be  satisfied  with  what  He  has  thought  sufficient  for  us. 
But  you  need  no  urging  to  induce  you  to  do  your  utmost ; 
the  only  difficulty  is,  to  know  in  what  manner  it  is  to  be 
done." 

"  Sydenham,  June  9,  1825. 
"  My  dear  Mary  :  — 

"  I  made  a  call  with  some  friends  one  day  upon  the 
clergyman's  lady,  when  our  names  were  carried  along 
by  a  row  of  livery  servants,  each  one  sounding  it  louder 
and  louder,  until  it  was  announced  by  my  lady's  own 
servant  at  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  in  a  voice  that 
made  me  start  at  the  fellow's  impudence  in  speaking  so 
loud  to  his  mistress;  but  I  found. that  the  poor  lady  was 
very  deaf,  yet  a  good,  easy,  old-fashioned  body,  as  sociable 
and  kind  as  need  be.  My  risibles  unfortunately  took  alarm 
at  the  similarity  of  this  train  of  servants  to  a  line  at  a  fire 
handing  buckets,  and  I  had  much  ado  to  look  indifferent 
and  dignified,  as  if  I  were  used  to  it ;  but  I  had  my  laugh 
out  when  I  got  into  the  room,  for  the  good-natured  body 
soon  gave  me  a  pretence  for  it  by  her  whimsical  stories. 

"  I  went  to  St.  Paul's  last  week  to  see  the  annual  gath- 
ering of  the  parochial  schools,  and  I  could  not  have  con- 
ceived any  thing  so  striking  as  the  sight  was.  That  part 
of  the  church  which  is  fitted  up  for  service  is  not  used,  but 
temporary  seats  are  erected  for  the  children  under  the  great 
dome,  and  the  spectators  sit  in  the  body  of  the  church,  quite 
down  to  the  western  door.  The  children,  about  eight  thou- 
sand, all  clothed  in  the  uniform  of  their  several  schools,  are 
arranged  one  row  above  another  to  the  number  of  sixteen, 
and  to  the  height  of  at  least  fifty  feet,  within  the  pillars  of 
the  dome  and  on  each  side  of  the  aisles.  The  appearance  of 
11* 


126  VISIT    ABROAD. 

the  children  was  most  deeply  affecting  ;  all  between  seven 
and  fourteen,  not  half  of  what  belonged  to  the  schools,  for 
want  of  room  ;  all  clothed  and  educated  by  charity ;  taken, 
for  the  most  part,  from  the  poorest  classes,  and  perhaps 
saved  from  destruction  ;  it  was  a  delightful  sight  for  a 
Christian,  a  striking  testimony  to  the  power  of  religion. 
They  were  directed  by  the  motions  of  one  mar  and  it 
seemed  as  if  one  impulse  moved  the  whole,  so  perfectly 
did  they  keep  time  together.  And  when  at  last  all  were 
assembled,  and  the  solemn  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by 
one  swell  of  their  united  voices  in  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving, 
I  think  the  most  insensible  there  must  have  been  melted  ; 
the  sound  filled  the  whole  of  that  vast  building,  and  rever- 
berated again  and  again  along  its  aisles.  The  morning 
service  was  performed  by  the  clergyman,  choristers,  and 
children ;  the  minister's  voice  w£is  almost  powerless  in 
that  vast  place,  and  the  organ,  and  voices  of  the  singers, 
sixteen  in  number,  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  end  of 
the  aisle  ;  the  children  only  could  fill  the  space,  and  as  they 
occasionaJly  burst  out  in  different  parts,  the  effect  was  won- 
derfully fine." 

At  this  point,  Mary  received  a  cordial  invitation 
from  a  party  of  American  friends,  to  go  with  them 
to  Scotland.  It  was  an  opportunity  which  she 
Hardly  expected,  but  most  earnestly  desired ;  not 
only  for  its  own  sake,  but  as  facilitating  a  cherished 
purpose  of  visiting  her  father's  only  sister  in  the 
North  of  England,  —  a  visit  of  which  she  thought 
more  than  any  other,  and  which  was  to  prove  more 
important  than  any  other,  though  in  a  way  which 
she  could  little  anticipate.  The  journey  thither, 
which  was  almost  her  only  pure  recreation,  and  was 


VISIT    ABROAD.  127 

shared  with  a  friend  of  all  others  desirable,  was  a 
high  enjoyment ;  and  her  unstudied  account  of  it, 
written  from  Chester  and  Gretna  Green,  we  give  at 
length,  as  we  have  allowed  but  little  room  to  this 
kind  of  description.  We  claim  for  it  no  distinction, 
except  that  of  naturalness  and  ease. 

«  Chester,  July  22,  1825. 
"  My  dear  Cousin  :  — 

"  From  sundry  letters  from  Emma  and  myself,  which 
will,  I  trust,  have  reached  you  long  before  this  does,  you 
will  be  able  to  guess  how  I  have  found  my  way  to  this 
place  ;  but  I  am  very  glad  that  I  have  time  and  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  you,  not  only  how,  but  why,  I  am  here.  I 
wrote  to  Ann  the  last  of  June,  mentioning  Mr.  Perkins's 
kind  proposition,  that  I  should  join  his  party  and  go  with 
them  to  Scotland.  I  received  your  delightful  letter  the  day 
after,  and,  I  assure  you,  the  encouragement  you  gave  me  to 
see  and  do  all  I  could,  with  the  promise  of  the  approbation 
of  those  kind  friends  whose  wishes  it  is  my  greatest  desire  to 
fulfil,  did  not  a  little  in  deciding  me  to  use  the  means  placed 
within  my  power  of  acquiring  the  information,  which  I 
probably  should  never  again  have  an  opportunity  of  getting. 
I  try  to  be  satisfied  in  having  done  what  appeared  best,  by 
the  thought  that  it  is  my  duty  to  improve  all  the  means  of 
doing  good  which  may  fall  in  my  way.  But  I  do  not  like 
to  think  that  any  thing  is  to  keep  me  from  you  much 
longer.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  when  I  came,  to  go  on 
bravely  to  the  end,  let  it  take  what  time  it  might,  but  my 
hope  was  that  a  year  would  be  sufficient,  and  I  still  hope 
that  it  will ;  yet  I  know  you  would  not  think  me  right  to 
leave  my  work  half  finished,  for  any  childish  weakness,  or 
homesick  feeling.  Be  assured  that  I  am  as  industrious  as 
I  can  be,  for  my  stimulant  to  exertion  is  a  most  powerful 


128  VISIT    ABROAD. 

one,  that  of  being  again  united  to  the  beloved  friends  whicr 
that  blessed  spot,  home,  contains.  We  have  had  a  »nos^ 
delightful  tour  so  far,  and  I  daily  feel  that  I  am  a  highly 
favored  mortal,  to  have  such  an  opportunity  of  witnessin| 
the  wonders  of  this  goodly  world  ;  and  I  cannot  but  be 
grieved  that  I  can  make  so  little  use  of  such  a  privi- 
lege. 

"  We  left  Bath  upon  the  9th,  and  have  since  passed 
through  South  and  North  Wales,  and  to-day  took  leave  ot 
the  interesting  scenery  and  people  we  found  there,  with 
much  regret.  At  Chepstow  we  passed  a  day,  seeing  the 
ruins  of  its  old  castle,  upon  some  sublime  rocks  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Wye,  and  walking  through  the  grounds 
of  Piercefield,  a  gentleman's  seat  in  the  neighborhood, 
finely  situated  upon  the  rocky,  yet  thickly  wooded  heights, 
"which  border  the  river  for  a  long  distance  from  its  mouth. 
On  our  ride  from  Chepstow  to  Hereford,  we  stopped  to  see 
the  ruins  of  Tintern  Abbey  and  Ragland  Castle,  both  very 
famous,  and  I  should  think  as  fine  as  it  was  possible  any 
thing  of  the  kind  could  be.  Of  the  former,  the  walls  and 
pillars  of  the  church  are  nearly  all  that  remain,  but  they 
are  so  perfect  as  to  give  one  an  exact  idea  of  the  beauty 
which  it  once  possessed,  built  in  the  purest  Gothic  style,  in 
the  bottom  of  a  quiet,  beautiful  valley,  watered  by  the 
Wye,  and  protected  on  all  sides  by  rocks  and  hills,  which 
seem  to  defy  any  power  that  should  dare  to  approach.  But 
the  hand  of  Time  has  worked  silently  and  effectually,  and 
what  was  once  a  most  noble  temple  is  now  but  a  tumbling 
ruin,  sublime,  indeed,  even  in  its  decay,  covered  almost 
with  ivy,  and  shaded  from  within  by  trees  which  have 
grown  upon  the  very  spots  consecrated  to  the  prayere  and 
confessions  of  its  former  possessors.  Its  situation,  and 
the  peculiar  lightness  and  beauty  of  its  architecture,  have 
made  it  very  much  talked  of  by  travellers ;  but  all  my  ex* 


VISIT    ABROAD.  129 

pectations  were  fully  answered,  although  they  were  very 
great. 

"  After  riding  all  day  over  hill  and  dale,  with  only  the 
sheep  for  our  companions,  we  came  at  once  upon  one  of 
the  most  romantic  scenes  imaginable  ;  the  singular  pass 
called  the  Devil's  Bridge,  a  stone  structure  thrown  over  a 
chasm  in  the  rocks  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  depth, 
through  the  bottom  of  which  runs  a  very  rapid  stream, 
dashing  over  rocks  which  at  some  seasons  must  make  quite 
a  grand  cataract ;  but  at  this  time  the  water  is  low.  The 
banks  are  thickly  wooded,  even  to  the  edge  of  the  water, 

and  altogether  it  is  very  attractive.     At  A we  passed 

a  night,  and  came  through  much  glorious  scenery  to  Dal- 
gelly,  where  we  performed  the  mighty  feat  of  mounting 
Cader  Idris,  the  highest  mountain  in  Wales,  except  Snow- 
don,  and  two  thousand  eight  hundred  feet  from  the  point 
we  left  in  the  plain  below.  Imagine  me  mounted  on  horse 
back,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  for  such  a  perilous  un- 
dertaking, fortunately  without  any  fear,  and  much  amused 
by  the  noveltj-  of  the  situation.  The  day  happened  to  be 
very  hot,  but  the  atmosphere  was  clear ;  and  we  should 
have  been  amply  repaid  for  tenfold  the  fatigue  we  endured 
by  the  grand  scene  we  beheld  from  the  summit.  Never 
having  before  been  on  a  great  elevation,  I  knew  not  what 
to  expect ;  and  if  the  sensations  were  not  just  what  I  had 
supposed,  they  were  sufficiently  solemn  to  make  me  sensi- 
ble that  it  was  '  good  to  be  there.'  A  birdseye  view  of  a 
circuit  of  five  hundred  miles  could  not  fail  to  fill  one  with 
an  idea  of  the  power  and  majesty  of  Him  who  formed 
these  wondrous  glories,  such  as  no  common  scenes  could 
ever  have  inspired.  I  think  I  shall  never  look  back  upon 
that  hour  without  recalling  emotions  which  should  make  oiio 
better  for  ever. 

"  Maey." 


130  VISIT    ABROAD. 

•♦  Gretna  Green,  Mif  3C,  1823 
"  My  dear  Mary  :  — 

"  My  last,  I  think,  was  from  Lancaster,  just  as  we  were 
about  commencing  our  journey  among  the  beautiful  lakes 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.  We  crossed  what  are 
called  the  Ulverstone  and  Lancaster  Sands  to  Ulverstone. 
The  shore  is  very  hard  at  this  place,  and  when  the  tide  is 
down  the  ride  is  perfectly  safe  and  free  from  water,  except 
in  the  centre,  where  a  river  passes  through.  At  this  place 
is  always  found  a  guide,  who  conducts  the  carriage  through 
the  ford.  I  confess  I  did  not  much  like  the  sensation,  for 
though  there  is  no  danger  in  a  heavy  carriage,  the  current 
of  the  river  is  so  strong  that  it  seems  as  if  the  carriage 
were  swimming.  It  was  an  odd  feeling,  too,  after  having 
been  so  recently  three  thousand  feet  in  the  air,  to  find 
one's  self  walking  on  the  very  bed  of  the  ocean.  We  had 
about  twelve  miles  of  this  kind  of  travelling.  The  coast  is 
very  bold,  and  we  were  quite  delighted  with  the  variety. 

"  The  next  day's  ride,  from  Ambleside  to  Keswick,  was  a 
very  interesting  one  ;  the  scenery  of  the  grandest,  and  at 
times  most  beautiful,  character.  At  Rydal  we  stopped  to 
see  what  would  have  been  a  beautiful  cascade  if  there  had 
been  any  water,  but  we  have  had  such  a  long  period  of 
dry  weather  that  the  stream  had  almost  disappeared.  The 
scenery  about  it  was  fine,  and  the  thing  itself  could  not  but 
interest  us  under  any  circumstances,  for  it  borders  upon 
Wordsworth's  grounds,  and  has  no  doubt  been  a  favorite 
resort  of  his,  and  the  suggestion  of  much  of  his  fine  poetry. 
His  house  is  just  below,  and  we  could  not  help  stopping  at 
the  gate,  to  look  at  the  abode  of  one  whose  writings  we  so 
much  admired.  He  was  not  at  home,  but  his  sister  came 
out  and  invited  us  to  see  the  place,  and  take  a  view  from 
the  Mount  which  gives  the  name  to  his  place.  This  we 
could  not  do,  but  it  was  some  consolation  for  our  disap- 


VISIT    ABROAD.  131 

pointment  to  have  spoken  to  her,  although  it  was  very  tan- 
talizing not  to  be  able  to  avail  ourselves  of  her  polite  invita- 
tion. The  lakes  of  Rydal,  Grasmere,  Windermere,  came 
in  succession  on  our  way,  all  beautiful,  but  Grassmere  with . 
its  little  island  in  the  centre  the  most  so,  by  far ;  the  banks 
being  much  wooded  and  ornamented  by  gentlemen's  seats. 
And  Emma  and  I  fancied  that,  after  searching  the  greater 
part  of  England,  we  had  at  length  found  a  spot  in  which 
we  should  be  willing  to  take  up  our  abode  for  life.  Thf. 
mighty  Helvellyn  tempted  us  mountain-climbers  to  ascend 
its  rough  sides,  but  with  Skiddaw  before  us  we  were  satis- 
fied to  pass  it,  in  the  hope  of  accomplishing  the  ascent  of 
that.  At  Keswick  we  staid  one  night,  riding  to  Bassen- 
thwaite  in  the  afternoon,  and  sailing  upon  the  lake  in  the 
evening.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  beauty  and  sublimity 
of  the  latter  excursion.  When  we  first  went  upon,  it,  the 
sun  was  just  setting  behind  the  immense  mountains  which 
bound  this  lake  on  the  west,  throwing  their  shadows  upon 
its  smooth  surface,  and  lighting  those  beyond  with  that  pur- 
ple, misty  hue,  which  is  not  to  be  described  but  by  the  brush 
of  an  artist,  this  again  giving  way  to  the  sober  hue  of  even- 
ing, until  all  view  of  them  would  have  been  lost,  had  not 
the  moon  risen  in  full-orbed  glory,  to  enlighten  the  scene 
with  her  paler,  but  not  less  beautiful  light.  We  sailed  about 
four  hours  upon  the  lake,  landing  upon  one  of  the  islands 
upon  which  is  a  gentleman's  seat,  and  going  to  the  other 
extremity  to  see  the  falls  of  dark  Lodore,  and  to  hear  the 
singular  effect  produced  by  firing  a  cannon  on  the  shore  ;  it 
seemed  like  the  rumbling  of  thunder,  and  was  distinctly 
echoed  five  times.  I  don't  think  I  have  enjoyed  any  one 
thing  so  much  as  this  sail,  since  we  commenced  our 
journey. 

"  We  came  on  through  Carlisle,  and  passed  the  boundary 
line  between  Scotland  and  England,  and  reached  this  place 


132  VISIT    ABROAD. 

before  dark,  —  the  first  town  over  the  border.  It  is  a  very 
small  village,  consisting  of  scarcely  more  than  a  dozen 
white  cottages,  but  it  has,  perhaps,  been  the  scene  of  as 
many  critical  events  as  many  a  larger  one.  We  are  at  a 
very  comfortable  inn,  got  up  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
fugitives  who  fly  hither  to  seal  their  fate  with  the  black- 
smith's unholy  blessing.  Do  not  be  alarmed  for  me,  al- 
though I  am  quietly  seated  in  the  very  room  which  has 
witnessed  the  consummation  '  so  devoutly  wished '  by  most 
young  dames.  It  is,  indeed,  mortifying  to  find  one's  self 
so  near  the  goal,  with  so  many  requisites,  obliged  to  miss 
the  glorious  opportunity  for  the  want  of  one  trifling  arti- 
cle, —  a  husband  ;  but  so  it  is,  and  notwithstanding  I  am 
treading  fairy  land,  I  in  vain  look  for  some  kind  godmother 
to  conjure  up  the  needful,  and  must  even  submit  to  single 
blessedness  a  little  longer.     But  I  must  stop  ;  and  have  not 

time  to  look  this  over. 

"  Maby." 


VII 

SCENES   OF  SUFFERING. 

Very  different  from  its  beginning  was  the  ter- 
mination of  the  pleasant  tour  through  Scotland. 
Mary  felt  it  a  duty  to  suppress  all  longings  to  go 
on  with  her  good  friend,  who  was  soon  to  leave  the 
country.  *  Gladly  would  she  have  returned  with  her 
to  America  at  once.  But  the  great  purpose,  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  chief  objects,  for  which  she  had 
gone  abroad,  was  not  yet  accomplished.  Her  fa- 
ther's only  sister,  who  had  been  left  a  widow  in  a 
very  destitute  condition,  was  still  living  in  a  distant 
and  obscure  village  of  Yorkshire.  Mr.  Pickard  had 
made  an  annual  provision  for  her  support  while  he 
lived,  and  his  daughter  determined  to  carry  out  his 
intentions,  so  far  as  she  could.  Yet  she  felt  that  no 
aid  in  her  power  to  send  would  be  as  much  to  her 
poor  aunt  as  a  visit,  and  she  had  been  anxiously 
looking  for  an  escort  to  the  place,  which  was  so  re- 
mote as  to  make  it  hardly  prudent  for  a  lady  and  a 
stranger  to  venture  alone.  She  was  therefore  the 
more  ready  to  accompany  her  friends  to  Scotland, 
as  on  their  return  they  would  go  within  eighty 
miles  of  Osmotherly,  her  aunt's  residence.  Accord- 
12 


134  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

ingly  she  parted  from  them  at  Penrith,  and  went  the 
rest  of  the  way  alone. 

The  visit  that  followed  forms  the  most  remark- 
able, and  in  some  respects  the  most  interesting  and 
important,  chapter  in  the  story  of  her  life.  Instead 
of  three  weeks,  which  she  had  set  apart  for  this  pur- 
pose, she  remained  three  months  at  Osmotherly. 
And  it  is  not  the  least  noticeable  fact  in  that  ex- 
perience, that  she  wrote  on  the  spot  a  very  full  ac- 
count of  the  whole,  in  the  midst  of  cares  and  the 
sight  and  sound  of  suflerings  which  are  ordinarily 
allowed  to  excuse,  if  they  do  not  wholly  prevent, 
any  use  of  the  pen  or  effort  of  mind.  But  we  will 
not  anticipate.  Nor  will  we  interrupt  the  narrative, 
which  we  have  drawn  from  various  letters,  by  any 
comments  of  our  own. 

"  Osmotherly,  September  2,  1825 

"  My  dear  Emma  :  — 
"  I  wish  I  could  relieve  your  mind  about  my  undertaking 
and  prospects  as  quickly  as  my  own  was  set  at  rest.  I  will 
not  recapitulate  all  or  any  thing  that  I  felt  at  parting  from 
you  yesterday,  but  you  know  me  well  enough  to  believe 
that  it  was  with  no  common  degree  of  regret  and  anxiety, 
which  the  uncertainty  of  the  path  before  me  tended  not  a 
little  to  increase.  But  I  did  recollect  that  I  had  never  yet 
been  forsaken  in  any  difficulty  ;  supposing  the  worst,  there 
could  be  no  fear  of  real  evil,  and  anxiety  and  distrust  only 
made  all  that  real  which  might  after  all  be  merely  imagi- 
nary. In  order  to  obtain  the  quiet  feeling  which  this  view 
of  things  should  create,  I  turned  my  attention  to  my  fellow- 
passenger,  who  proved  a  very  respectable,  well-informed 
woman,  and  my  only  companion    o  North  AUcrton.     Her 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  135 

experiences  helped  to  make  me  more  comfortable,  for  she 
had  come  from  London  alone,  travelled  all  night,  and  had 
a  very  long  distance  farther  to  go.  She  said  she  found  no 
difficulty  in  travelling  alone,  and  gave  me  some  useful 
hints  upon  the  subject.  Our  route  lay  over  a  different  road 
from  that  by  which  we  approached  York,  and  as  the  day 
was  so  fine,  we  had  a  more  tolerable  ride  than  I  expected. 
At  North  Allerton  I  found  a  quiet  room  at  the  inn,  and  a 
civil  landlady,  —  went  directly  to  the  post-office,  where  a 
long  and  delightful  letter  from  Jane  McAdam  awaited  me. 
Not  a  word  there  of  my  aunt's  letter,  and  I  then  went  to  a 
gentleman,  through  whom  I  had  formerly  transmitted  letters 
to  her,  and  found  that  he  had  sent  the  day  before  a  letter 
from  her  to  me,  and  that  she  was  then  well.  This  set  me 
quite  at  ease,  and  I  took  a  chaise  and  rode  hither  with  a 
comparatively  light  heart.  And  then  I  wished  it  had  so 
chanced  that  you  could  have  taken  this  ride  with  me,  for  a 
more  beautiful  one  I  have  seldom  seen.  This  town  lies 
upon  one  of  those  hills  which  we  saw  at  a  distance  towards 
the  east  the  day  we  rode  from  Richmond  ;  and  the  ride 
from  North  Allerton  is  a  gradual  ascent,  giving  at  every 
step  a  more  extended  view  of  the  rich  country  which  we- 
passed  through,  with  the  additional  beauty  of  numberless 
little  streams  which  we  could  not  see,  and  highly  cultivated 
hills  rising  on  one  side  to  a  great  height. 

"  I  found  my  aunt  much  better  than  I  expected,  and,  as 
you  may  suppose,  almost  overpowered  with  joy  to  see  me. 
I  did  wish  you  could  have  seen  her,  —  a  small,  thin  old 
lady,  with  a  pale  complexion,  like  Aunt  Whipple,  and  the 
very  brightest  black  eyes,  which  sparkle  when  she  speaks 
with  a  degree  of  animation  almost  amusing  in  such  an  old 
lady.  She  lives  in  a  comfortable  little  two-story  cottage 
of  four  rooms,  which  far  exceeds  any  thing  I  ever  saw  for 
neatness.     I  find  that  I  could  not  have  come  at  a  better 


136  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

time  to  do  good,  or  a  worse  for  gaining  spirits.  My  aunt's 
two  daughters  are  married  and  live  in  this  village  ;  one 
of  them,  with  three  children,  has  a  husband  at  the  point 
of  death  with  a  fever ;  his  brother  died  yesterday  of  the 
small-pox,  and  two  of  her  children  have  the  whooping- 
cough  ;  added  to  this,  their  whole  dependence  is  upon  their 
own  exertions,  which  are  of  course  entirely  stopped  now. 
One  of  the  children,  a  year  and  a  half  old,  is  with  the 
grandmother,  but  so  ill  with  the  cough  that  she  is  almost 
sick  with  taking  care  of  it.  It  has  fortunately  taken  a  fancy 
to  me  at  once,  and  I  can  relieve  her  a  little.  But  worse 
than  all,  one  of  her  sons  had  come  home  in  a  very  gloomy 
state  of  mind,  and  all  her  efforts  had  failed  to  rouse  him  to 
exertion.  I  hope  to  be  more  successful,  for  he  seems  will 
ing  to  listen  to  me.  You  may  suppose,  under  such  a  state 
of  things,  I  shall  find  enough  to  do.  My  aunt's  mind  is  in 
a  much  better  state  than  I  expected,  and  if  she  does  not 
get  worn  out  with  care  to  do  more  for  me  than  ever  was 
done  for  any  body  before,  I  shall  be  most  thankful  that  I 
came.  She  tells  me  of  many  neighboring  places  which  it 
would  interest  me  to  visit,  as  resorts  of  my  deaf  father,  and 
I  think,  next  week,  if  possible  to  get  a  vehicle,  I  shall  take 
her  off  upon  a  jaunt  round  the  country  for  a  few  days,  in 
home  style,  driving  myself. 

"  I  have  not  seen  half  the  multitude  of  cousins  that  I  find 
are  to  be  seen,  but  so  far  they  are  kind  and  affectionate, 
and  disposed  to  make  me  comfortable  and  happy.  1  feel 
just  like  a  child  who  has  left  home  for  the  first  time  ;  the 
change  is  so  sudden  and  so  great,  that  the  last  eight  weeks 
seem  to  me  very  like  a  dream  of  some  distant  age,  and  a 
most  interesting  one  too.  I  never  was  more  thankful  for 
the  varieties  of  life  through  which  I  have  passed,  for  with- 
out actual  experience  I  never  could  have  adapted  myself  to 
the  new  order  of  beincs  I  now  have  to  deal  with.     I  shall 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  137 

find  full  employment  for  my  fingers,  in  making  my  poor 

aunt  as  comfortable  as  I  wish  to  leave  her. 

"  Yours, 

"  M.  L.  P." 

"  Osmotkerly,  September  8,  1825. 

"  My  dear  Emma  :  — 
"  Watching  all  night  by  a  death-bed  is  but  a  poor  prep- 
aration for  writing ;  and  yet  I  am  not  willing  to  lose  the 
first  leisure  moment  that  I  have  had  since  I  wrote  you,  lest 
you  should  be  alarmed  at  my  long  silence.  But  I  think, 
from  the  account  I  gave  you  of  the  state  of  atfairs  here, 
you  will  naturally  conclude  that  I  should  have  had  con- 
stant occupation,  and  will  not  be  uneasy  about  me.  I  have 
indeed  found  quite  as  much  employment  for  mind  and 
body  as  either  were  able  to  perform,  and  have  not  had  one 
moment  to  devote  to  you,  although  my  heart  has  been  with 
you,  and  my  thoughts  have  often  followed  you.  The  poor 
sick  man,  of  whom  I  told  you,  has  been  growing  worse 
daily,  and  it  was  with  feelings  of  almost  joy  that  I  last 
night  closed  his  eyes,  knowing  that  his  sufferings  were  at 
an  end  ;  and  yet  he  is  so  great  a  loss  to  his  family,  that  1 
seldom  knew  a  case  in  which  it  was  so  difficult  to  feel  that 
'  it  is  right.'  His  wife,  who  is  but  a  slender  woman,  is 
left  with  three  little  boys,  without  a  penny  to  support  them, 
and  almost  without  the  power  of  gaining  it,  for  the  young- 
est, which  is  but  three  weeks  old,  is  dreadfully  ill  with  the 
whooping-cough.  She  is  a  calm  and  patient  sufferer,  how- 
ever, and  it  does  one  good  to  see  how  trouble  can  be  borne 
by  the  most  unlettered  and  uninformed,  when  the  spirit  is 
right.  I  have  not  been  able  to  do  much  for  him,  but  the 
little  baby  has  been  my  constant  care,  and  I  have  got  to 
loving  it  dearly.  Every  thing  around  me  is  sad  and  sor- 
rowful, and  nothing  but  the  effort,  which  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  me  to  make,  to  cheer  and  assist  others,  gives 
12* 


138 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 


me  the  least  pleasure.  My  poor  aunt,  weakened  in  mind 
and  body  by  continued  and  most  severe  afflictions,  is  almost 
a  child ;  her  son  is  nearly  insane,  and  keeps  her  in  con- 
stant fear  lest  he  may  destroy  himself;  and  the  trials  of 
this  poor  daughter  are  enough  to  break  her  heart.  Another 
of  my  cousins  is  well  married,  and  wishes  me  to  be  with 
her  at  her  quiet  and  happy  home ;  but  I  cannot  think  of 
deserting  this  post,  however  painful,  for  any  prospect  of 
ease  to  myself.  In  fact,  it  seems  to  me  that  posts  of  dif- 
ficulty are  my  appointed  lot  and  my  element,  for  I  do  feel 
lighter  and  happier  when  I  have  difficulties  to  overcome. 
Could  you  look  in  upon  me,  you  would  think  it  was  impos- 
sible that  I  could  be  even  tolerably  comfortable,  and  yet  I 
am  cheerful,  and  get  on  as  easily  as  possible,  and  am  in 
truth  happy. 

"  This  village  is  the  most  primitive  place  I  ever  was  in, 
and  a  very  obscure,  out-of-the  way  place  ;  the  inhabitants 
almost  entirely  of  one  class,  and  that  of  the  poorer  kind  of 
laboring  people,  ignorant  as  possible,  but  simple  and  social. 
You  may  conceive  of  their  simple  manners,  when  I  tell 
you  they  '  never  saw  such  a  lady  as  Miss  Pickard  '  among 
them  before;  and  of  course  Miss  Pickard  is  an  object  of  as 
much  curiosity  and  speculation  as  if  she  were  Empress  of 
all  the  Russias ;  but  they  are  kind-hearted  and  civil.  The 
peculiar  situation  of  things  has  taken  me  more  among  them 
tlian  I  should  have  been  in  twice  the  time,  under  common 
circumstances,  and  it  has  been  a  good  exercise  for  my 
faculty  of  adaptation.  I  have  succeeded,  I  believe,  in 
pleasing  them,  for  it  seems  as  if  they  only  vied  with  each 
other  in  trying  to  do  the  most  for  me,  and  I  really  think,  if 
they  had  a  parson  to  write  the  '  Annals  of  their  Parish,'  the 
arrival  of  the  'American  lady'  would  stand  as  the  most 
remarkable  event  in  the  year  1825.  This  amuses  me,  and 
gives  me  an  opportunity   of  doing  much   good   with   little 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  139 

trouble,  for  it  gives  me  influence ;  and,  moreover,  it  shows 
me  human  nature  under  a  new  form.  But  I  am  entirely 
destitute  of  every  thing  like  companionship,  and  having 
had  bo  much  in  this  way  lately  with  you,  of  the  most  sat- 
isfactory and  delightful  kind,  you  will  readily  believe  thai 
I  must  feel  a  great  deficiency.  There  is  not  even  a  cler- 
gyman's family  for  me  to  associate  with,  for  the  curate  of 
tJie  place  is  of  the  very  worst  class  of  that  set  whose  ex- 
istence is  a  standing  disgrace  to  the  Church  ;  an  ignorant, 
drinking  man,  as  careless  and  negligent  of  the  duties  of 
his  station  as  if  he  considered  it  of  no  consequence  what- 
ever. I  hope  to  have  a  little  leisure  soon,  and  then  reading 
and  writing  will  make  up  to  me  in  some  measure  for  the 
loss  of  society  ;  but  as  yet  I  have  literally  had  to  work  hard, 
and  have  not  found  time  even  to  look  at  '  the  journal.'  I 
have  a  nice,  little,  quiet  room,  however,  and  feel  quite  at 
home  in  it. 

"  I  have  thought  much,  very,  very  much,  of  your  voyage 
back  without  me.  I  will  not  say  I  regret  the  circumstances 
which  have  led  to  my  disappointment,  for  it  seemed  to  be 
my  appointed  path,  and  when  one  follows  the  dictates  of 
conscience  it  must  be  right ;  and  when  it  is  right,  why 
should  we  wish  it  otherwise  ?  But  I  am  weak,  and  there 
are  times  when  the  thought  of  another  six,  perhaps  nine, 
months'  absence  from  home,  with  all  the  uncertainties 
which  attend  the  future,  makes  my  heart  sink,  and  the  tear 
start,  in  spite  of  myself.  Yet  it  could  not  be  otherwise  ;  it 
would  have  been  wrong  to  have  neglected  coming  here.  I 
am  more  convinced  of  this  now  than  ever,  for  though  it  was 
said  that  I  could  do  as  much  good  by  sending  money  as  by 
coming  myself,  I  do  not  think  so ;  and  though  I  may  be 
thought  foolishly  scrupulous  for  subjecting  myself  to  the 
evils  I  must  meet  with  here,  when  I  might  have  avoided 
them,  I  am  sure  I  never  could  have  felt  satisfied  that  all 


140  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

was  done  for  my  poor  aunt  as  well  as  it  could  be,  unless  I 
had  seen  and  managed  it.  But  I  am  allowing  myself  in 
talking  of  self  in  a  most  unwarrantable  manner ;  you  will 
pardon  me,  in  consideration  of  the  difficulty  of  giving  up  at 
once  the  habit  of  self-indulgence  which  your  kindness  has 
created  and  fixed." 

"  Osmotherly,  September  10  1825. 
"  My  dear  Emma  :  — 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  act  modest  and  beg  a  compliment  for 
it,  but  in  sober  truth  you  do  overrate  me.  Just  because 
you  happen  to  have  seen  more  deeply  into  my  '  inner  man ' 
than  you  are  wont  to  do  with  others,  and  have  your  feel- 
ings strongly  interested,  you  let  them  carry  you  off,  upon 
tfveir  liberal  and  expanded  wings,  to  a  region  of  romance 
peopled  by  ideal  spirits  with  which  you  identify  your  poor 
friend  Mary,  who  has  in  truth  no  business  there.  But  I  do 
indeed  rejoice,  if  the  experience  which  God  in  his  goodness 
has  given  me  has  been  in  any  measure  useful.  I  do  con- 
sider it  a  privilege  to  have  learned  so  much  of  His  charac- 
ter and  will  as  in  the  wisdom  of  His  providence  He  has 
enabled  me  to  do,  though  it  has  been  by  fiery  trial.  I  feel 
responsible  for  the  right  use  of  such  a  privilege,  not  only 
for  my  own,  but  others'  good ;  and  if  in  the  fulness  of  my 
heart  I  have  been  tempted  to  show  you  more  of  myself 
than  a  cooler  judgment  would  have  approved,  I  trust  that  it 
may  not  have  been  without  its  advantages  to  both  ;  to  me, 
in  teaching  a  lesson  of  humility  ;  to  you,  as  a  warning,  per- 
haps. But  I  must  not  yield  to  this  propensity  to  egotism  ; 
I  have  too  much  beside  to  talk  about. 

"  Our  poor  man  was  buried  yesterday,  and,  as  clergymen 
rarely  come  here,  my  cousin  thought  she  would  have  her 
infant  christened  on  the  same  day.  It  was  a  most  aflecting 
sight.  I  stood  as  its  godmother  at  her  request,  because  I 
could  not  refuse  her  at  such  a  time  ;  but  it  is  too  great  a 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  141 

responsibility  to  be  lightly  taken.  The  child,  however, 
cannot  live,  for  it  has  begun  already  to  have  fits  with  its 
cough. 

"  September  12.  In  three  days  you  are  to  be  gone  from 
the  country,  and  I  shall  not  have  this  means  of  communi- 
cating. Dear  Emma,  you  cannot  tell  how  much  I  shall 
miss  you.  You  seem  to  be  a  connecting  link  with  home, 
which  I  have  a  fearful  dread  of  losing.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  but  these  coming  six  months  seem  to  me  a  worse  sepa- 
ration than  all  the  past  eighteen.  Yet  do  not  think,  because 
I  feel  so  sad  about  not  going  home,  that  I  dread  staying. 
You  know  enough  of  the  interests  I  have  here,  to  feel  satis- 
fied that  I  shall  have  much  to  occupy  me  pleasantly.  It  is 
only  the  protracted  separation  from  home  that  I  feel  sorry 
for,  and  that  is  unavoidable,  and  will  perhaps  prove  best  on 
many  accounts.     Farewell." 

"  Osmotherly,  September  13,  1825. 
"  Dear  Emma  :  — 

"  I  had  determined  to  write  last  night,  as  I  found  it  quite 

out  of  the  question  to  attempt  it  in  the  daytime.      I   had 

been  up  with  the  little  boy  a  great  part  of  the  night  before ; 

yet  I  knew  I  could  keep  awake  writing,  I  wanted  to  do  it  so 

much.     But  in  the  true  spirit  of  Polly  Pickard,  attempting 

more  than  any  one  would  think   reasonable,  I  was  quite 

persuaded  that,  as  I  was  to  sit  up,  it  was  as  well  to  do  all 

I  could  ;  and  as  poor  cousin  Bessy  had  not  had   a  quiet 

night  since  her  child  was   born,  and  was  going  to  sleep 

alone  in  her  house  for  the  first  time  since  her  husband's 

death,  I  thought  it  would  do  her  good,  and  me  no  harm,  to 

sit  up  in  her  parlor,  and  take  care  of  the  baby  in  the  cradle, 

that  she  might  have  a  little  sleep,  and  not  feel  alone.     The 

dear  little  baby  had  been  better  than  for  some  time,  during 

the  day,  and  \  doubted  not  it  would  lie  in  the  cradle  or  on 


142  SCENES    OF    SUFFKUING. 

my  knee  very  quietly,  except  during  its  coughing  fits. 
Bessy  went  to  bed,  but  the  poor  little  creature  grew  worse, 
and  coughed  itself  into  a  fit,  in  which  it  lay  so  long  that  I 
thought  it  dead,  and  awoke  its  mother ;  but  its  little  heart 
began  to  beat  again,  and  it  seemed  to  be  reviving,  though 
slowly,  and  I  sent  her  off  again.  It  appeared  for  some  time 
to  be  recovering,  but  all  at  once  it  sunk  away  and  died  in 
rry  arms,  so  peacefully  and  sweetly  that  I  could  scarcely 
be  persuaded  that  it  had  not  fallen  into  a  still  slumber,  or 
had  another  fit.  But  it  was  indeed  gone,  and  when  I  could 
bring  myself  to  give  it  up,  I  arranged  its  little  body  for  its 
last  home.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  had  my  feelings 
more  excited.  It  was  a  lovely  little  creature,  and  I  have 
nursed  it  so  much  since  I  have  been  here,  that  I  found  it 
had  become  an  object  of  great  interest  to  me  ;  not  a  day 
has  passed  that  I  have  not  given  three  or  four  hours  to  it, 
and  it  was  always  so  quiet  with  me  that  it  seemed  almost 
to  know  when  I  took  it.  The  circumstances  of  the  family, 
too,  made  it  singularly  affecting  that  it  should  be  taken 
away,  and  the  suddenness  of  its  death  seemed  almost  to 
bewilder  me.  Its  poor  mother  is  ill,  and  between  comfort- 
ing her  and  coming  home  to  my  aunt,  who  is  very  feeble,  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  find  time  enough  for  either.  I  have 
been  up  three  nights  since  Wednesday  last,  and,  with  two 
children  to  manage,  I  am  almost  mazed. 

"  I  have  tried  to  write  this  morning,  for  the  baby  was  not 
out  of  my  arms  a  moment  last  night,  but  I  cannot  collect 
my  thoughts,  —  I  don't  know  what  I  mean  to  say.  You 
must  state  the  case  for  me.  Could  you  look  in  upon  me 
you  might  wonder  I  was  not  crazy,  but  I  shall  do  very  well 
when  I  get  a  little  sleep.  Do  not  feel  uneasy  about  me  ;  I 
am  not  in  danger  of  being  sick,  unless  the  prophecies  of 
the  old  women  here  will  kill  me,  for  they  think,  I  believe, 
that  I  am  too  kind  to  live,  and  they  shake  their  heads  most 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  143 

knowingly,  —  one  proof  among  a  thousand  how  much  more 
frequently  our  characters  are  estimated  by  the  circum- 
stances in  which  we  happen  to  be  placed,  than  by  any  other 
criterion.  Do  write,  to  the  last  minute.  I  cannot  bear  to 
part  with  you  in  this  unsatisfactory  manner,  but  indeed  I 
am  incapable  of  any  thing  more  ;  my  eyes  are  dazzled  as 
I  write,  and  I  must  lie  down.  I  shall  write  by  the  packet 
of  the  24th  from  Liverpool,  so  that  you  will  hear  of  me 
almost  as  soon  as  you  get  home  ;  and  I  pray  God  that  in 
safety  and  health  and  increased  happiness  you  may  all 
reach  '  that  haven  where  you  would  be,  with  a  grateful 
sense  of  His  mercies.'  May  God  for  ever  bless  you,  my 
dear,  kind  friend,  and  strengthen  you  by  His  grace  to  pur- 
sue with  success  that  path  of  virtue  and  holiness  which  it  is 
your  wish  to  follow,  and  enable  you  to  perform  all  the  du- 
ties which  lie  before  you,  consistently  with  His  divine  will, 
and  worthy  of  His  acceptance.  This  caa  only  be  done  by 
humble  reliance  upon  Him  who  is  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the 
life,  for  guidance,  support,  and  reward.  He  alone  can  en- 
able us  to  do  that  which  we  ought  to  do,  and,  feeling  our  own 
weakness,  let  us  rely  with  faith  upon  His  promises,  neither 
doubting  nor  fearing  the  certainty  of  their  accomplishment. 
But  I  cannot  write  or  think  ;  I  seem  to  feel  that  '  bonnie 
little  bairnie '  in  my  arms  still,  and  my  nerves  are  some- 
thing shaken.  The  worst  of  the  whole  is  that  poor,  unhap- 
py young  man,  whose  low  moans  are  continually  sounding 
in  my  ears  ;  but  I  send  him  away  to-morrow  for  his  own 
sake,  as  well  as  ours,  and  all  will  go  well.  Again,  dearest 
Emma,  Heaven  bless  you  !     Ever  your 

«  M.  L.  P." 

"  Osmotherly,  September  14,  1825. 

"  Dear  Emma  :  — 
"  I  have  had  a  grand  night's  sleep,  and  am  better  to-day, 
—  should  be  well,  but  for  this  lazy  feeling,  and  a  dull  head* 


144  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

ache.  Don't  fear  for  me.  1  do  not  think  I  am  going  to  be 
sick,  and  it  will  be  for  some  good  purpose  if  I  am.  t  could 
not  regret  what  I  have  done ;  I  could  almost  say,  as  Mr. 
Thacher  once  said,  '  I  had  better  live  a  shorter  life,  and  a 
useful  one.'  But  I  am  not  inclined  to  throw  away  life  ei- 
ther ;  I  enjoy  it  much,  and  think  it  right  for  all  to  endea\or 
to  preserve  it,  for  we  may  all  do  some  good  if  we  try,  and 
that  is  reason  enough  for  keeping  it,  were  there  no  enjoy- 
ment to  be  had  ;  as  there  is,  even  for  the  most  distressed. 
But  I  must  leave  you,  for  I  am  not  able  to  write  more. 

" We  buried  the  dear  little  baby  to-day,  which 

has  been  a  wet,  uncomfortable  one,  and  I  do  not  feel  the 
better  for  the  exposure,  but  on  the  whole  am  very  well ; 
nothing  but  a  trifling  cold,  scarcely  worth  minding.  1  feel 
with  you  that  it  is  as  well,  if  not  better^  that  I  should  stay. 
But  you  must  not  judge  of  its  importance  by  cousin  Jane's 
representation ;  her  warm  heart  runs  away  with  her  judg- 
ment where  she  feels  so  much. 

"  A  truce  with  your  '  feelings  of  inferiority.'    Who  scolds 
me  for  the  same  feelings  ?     It  is  Pride,  my  dear,  depend 
upon  it.     I  know  it  of  old.     Do  not  let  it  triumph. 
"  Fver  sincerely  yours, 

«  M.  L.  P." 

"  Osmotkerly,  October  3,  1825. 

"  My  DEjiR  Emma  :  — 
"  I  have  jus^t  received  your  farewell  blessing,  and  could 
you  look  in  upon  me,  and  know  the  peculiar  circumstances 
and  situation-  in  which  I  am  placed,  you  would  not  be  sur- 
prised thpt  it  has  made  a  very  child  of  me,  and  that  for  the 
time  I  ffel  as  if  all  my  connection  with  my  home  and  its 
interests  was  severed  by  your  departure.  I  would  not  write 
under  th'jsc  impressions,  for  I  know  it  is  a  diseased  state  of 
loind.  did  I  not  fear  that,  unless  I  improve  this  one  leisure 
e^onipg,  I  shall  not  have  another  opportunity  of  writing  for 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  145 

a  long  time  ;  and  I  know  you  will  be  anxious  to  hear  Irom 
me,  from  the  uncomfortable  feeling  which  you  express  at 
not  receiving  late  letters.  I  did  at  first  regret  that  I  had 
not  written  upon  the  chances  of  your  being  detained,  but  on 
the  whole  it  was  best  that  I  did  not,  for  I  could  not  at  any 
moment  since  my  last  date  have  relieved  your  anxiety,  had 
I  told  you  the  truth,  and  I  think  your  imagination  could  not 
picture  any  evil  so  bad  as  the  reality  has  been. 

"  But  to  proceed  in  order.  I  wrote  you  last,  I  think,  tho 
day  after  the  dear  little  infant  was  buried,  and  I  believe  I 
mentioned  to  you  that  I  had  taken  up  my  night  quarters- 
with  my  poor  cousin  Bessy.  She  had  never  been  left 
alone  since  her  husband  died,  and  now  that  she  had  no 
longer  her  baby  to  occupy  her  attention,  she  felt  her  deso- 
lateness  more  forcibly.  I  therefore  gave  the  day  to  my 
aunt,  having  Bessy  and  her  two  little  boys  as  much  with 
us  as  possible,  and  passed  the  night  with  her.  She  was  the 
most  patient  sufferer  I  ever  saw  ;  not  a  word  of  repining 
ever  escaped  her,  and  she  went  about  her  occupations  and 
duties  with  a  steadiness  which  spoke  a  detei'mination  to 
sacrifice  every  selfish  consideration  to  the  good  of  her  chil- 
dren. Scarcely  a  tear  could  be  seen  on  her  cheek,  and  a 
common  observer  would  have  accused  her  of  want  of  feel- 
ing, if  he  had  not  understood  that  the  settled  calm  which 
sat  upon  her  face  might  hide  more  real  agony  than  is  ever 
shown  by  any  '  sounds  of  woe.'  Her  resolution  astonished 
her  friends,  for  they  knew  her  to  have  a  very  timid  and 
self-distrusting  character,  and  the  situation  in  which  she 
was  thus  suddenly  placed  would  have  appalled  even  a  stout 
heart.  But  I  saw  the  true  state  of  the  case.  When  the 
duties  of  the  day  were  past,  and  the  necessity  for  exerting 
herself  over,  and  all  at  rest  but  ourselves,  she  felt  at  liberty 
to  indulge  herself  in  talking  of  that  of  which  she  would  not 
speak  to  any  one  beside  ;  and  I  found  that  what  seemed 
13 


146  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

insensibility  was  in  reality  a  degree  of  fortitude  and  reso 
lution  which  I  never  saw  equalled.  I  thought  it  best,  too, 
to  encourage  her  thus  to  open  her  heart,  for  I  believe  that 
concealed  grief  is  always  the  most  destructive  to  the  mind, 
and  her  situation  really  required  the  advice  and  assistance 
of  any  one  who  could  aid  her,  as  she  was  inexperienced 
and  felt  her  own  deficiencies  to  a  most  overpowering  de- 
gree. She  had  had  but  little  instruction  upon  religious 
subjects,  and  would  listen  to  my  reading  of  the  Scriptures, 
and  detail  of  my  own  experience  of  the  power  of  religious 
consolations,  as  if  a  new  light  were  opened  to  her  soul.  I 
did  not  then  know  how  much  she  was  affected,  but  the 
readiness  with  which  she  adopted  advice  upon  the  subject 
gave  me  much  hope  that  it  would  in  time  become  as  valu- 
able to  her  as  it  had  been  to  me. 

"  I  told  you  that  her  infant  was  only  a  fortnight  old  when 
her  husband  was  taken  ill,  and  only  a  month  when  it  died. 
Its  mother  had  never  recovered  her  strength,  and  distress 
having  destroyed  her  appetite,  and  watching  deprived  her 
of  sleep,  she  was  as  thin  and  weak  as  possible,  and  but  ill 
•able  to  bear  the  consequences  of  the  sudden  death  of  the 
child.  This,  added  to  a  cold  which  she  took,  made  her 
very  feverish,  and  the  absence  of  the  physician  from  town 
obliged  her  to  confine  herself  to  such  simple  remedies  as 
we  could  prescribe,  to  avert  further  evil  and  restore  her 
6t''^ngth.  But  the  benefit  which  she  derived  from  them 
\/as  but  temporary.  A  week  from  the  day  upon  which  her 
baby  died,  while  passing  the  afternoon  with  us,  she  was 
taken  very  ill,  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  her 
brother  and  myself  carried  her  to  her  own  house,  only  a 
few  rods  distant.  I  lost  no  time  in  administering  the  pre- 
scriptions of  the  i)hysician,  and  for  a  few  days  she  seemed 
to  mend  ;  but  I  soon  felt  convinced  that  her  disease  was 
the  worst  form  of  typhus  fever,  and  was  sure  that  she  had 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  147 

not  strength  to  get  through  it.  The  doctor  confirmed  my 
suspicions,  but  told  me  that  such  was  the  dread  of  it  among 
the  country  people,  that,  if  it  were  known,  I  should  be  left  to 
myself,  for  no  one  would  come  near  the  house.  I  had  not 
then  required  any  assistance,  for  I  was  very  well,  and, 
knowing  her  situation  to  be  a  critical  one,  did  not  like  to 
trust  her  to  any  one  beside.  By  some  means,  however, 
the  story  was  sounded  abroad  and  spread  like  wildfire,  and 
the  suspicion  of  (what  was  in  fact  the  truth)  the  two  broth- 
ers having  died  of  the  same  disorder  added  to  the  evil. 

"  The  day  after  Bessy  was  taken,  Jemmy,  her  youngest 
child,  a  boy  of  three,  fell  ill  too,  and  though  it  was  doubt- 
ful whether  whooping-cough  or  typhus  had  the  greater 
share  in  his  malady,  to  the  fearful  minds  of  the  villagers  it 
was  all  one  and  the  same,  and  the  family  were  thought  to 
be  doomed  to  destruction.  One  by  one  fell  off  from  com- 
ing near  the  house,  till  I  at  last  scarcely  saw  a  person  ex- 
cept the  doctor  during  the  day.  This  I  did  not  mind,  for  I 
preferred  being  constantly  with  my  cousin,  and  the  actual 
labor  of  attending  her  was  not  great ;  she  took  but  little, 
and  all  the  help  which  I  wished  for  I  had.  She  died,  how- 
ever, on  the  30th  of  September,  eleven  days  after  she  was 
taken,  and  during  that  time  I  had  never  left  her,  night  or 
day,  except  to  change  my  clothes  occasionally  at  my 
aunt's.  I  had  watched  with  her  seven  nights,  and  been  up 
part  of  every  other;  for  so  accustomed  was  she  to  my  care, 
that  she  did  not  like  to  be  touched  by  any  other  person.  I 
had  sent  the  two  little  boys  to  their  grandmother's,  and  the 
youngest  was  very  ill  during  the  whole  of  his  mother' 
sickness,  and  still  continues  so.  My  cousin's  little  cottag  •' 
was  so  small,  that  I  felt  unwilling  that  any  one  should  sleep 
in  it,  lest  they  should  suffer  from  infection  ;  and  often  did  i 
sit  up  with  her  alone  in  the  house.  I  had  been  so  exposed 
to  the  disease  that  I  felt  no  fears  for  myself,  and  I  belieiitt 


14S  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

this  helped  to  preserve  me,  and  the  good  doctor  watched 
me  very  narrowly.  I  could  not  in  a  month  tell  you  half 
the  interesting  circumstances  attending  this  trying  scene. 
Her  senses  never  forsook  her  for  a  moment,  nor  her  deep 
sonse  of  gratitude  to  God  for  the  mercies  which  he  nad 
bestowed  on  her  amid  all  her  sufferings.  It  seemed  to  her 
His  immediate  providence  which  had  sent  me  to  them  just 
at  this  time,  and  her  expressions  of  affection  and  thankful- 
ness were  indeed  most  delightful  to  me.  It  does  appear 
most  singular  that  I  should  have  come  just  now,  for  the  fact 
is,  poor  Bessy  would  have  suffered  for  want  of  a  nurse, 
beside  many  other  necessaries,  had  I  not  been  here.  Her 
mother  was  fully  occupied  with  the  little  boy,  and  her  sister 
too  distant,  and  of  too  much  importance  at  home,  to  be  with 
her,  and  the  people  of  the  place  are  too  ignorant  and  fright- 
ened to  have  been  all  to  her  that  she  required. 

"  It  was  necessary  to  bury  her  immediately  ;  and  thus  is 
this  family  entirely  broken  up,  in  the  short  space  of  three 
weeks,  by  the  death  of  both  its  heads.  She  left  her  chil- 
dren to  my  sole  direction  and  care,  and  the  settlement  of 
all  their  affairs,  so  that  I  have  still  much  to  do,  beside  the 
care  of  the  sick  child.  His  grandmother  is  almost  worn 
out  with  it,  and  left  his  mother's  death-bed  only  to  nurse 
him.  I  have  now  stolen  away  from  him  for  an  hour  to 
visit  this  deserted  place,  and  am  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the 
lonely  parlor,  without  any  other  being  in  the  house  but  the 
eldest  boy  of  seven,  who  is  amusing  himself  by  my  side, 
interrupting  me  now  and  then  by  saying,  '  Cousin  Mary, 
you  will  let  me  live  with  you,  wont  you?'  Every  thing  is 
still  without,  and  so  strongly  is  my  poor  cousin's  voice  asso- 
ciated with  every  thing  1  see  around  me,  that  it  would  not 
require  any  very  strong  effort  of  imagination  to  fancy  I 
still  heard  her  blessing  me  from  what  is  now,  I  trust,  her 
abo  'e  of  peace  and  joy.     Hut  I  must  not  indulge  myself  in 


SCENES    3F    SUFFERING.  149 

writing  about  feelings,  for  I  have  much  else  to  say  ;  but  I 
really  think,  since  the  last  solemn  evening  that  I  spent  alone 
in  the  old  oak  parlor  in  Pearl  Street,  I  have  never  felt  so 
forcibly  the  mutability  of  all  earthly  things ;  and  had  I  any 
one  to  listen,  I  could  talk  all  night  upon  the  subject. 

"  This  is  by  far  the  most  primitive,  uncivilized  place  I 
was  ever  in  ;  I  cannot  liken  it  to  any  thing  I  know  at  home, 
for  even  Worthington  has  lawyers  and  a  clergyman's  family 
to  redeem  it ;  and,  moreover,  the  general  inhabitants  of  our 
little  towns  have  more  information  and  education  than  is 
to  be  found  in  these  out-of-the-way  villages,  to  which  the 
modern  improvement  of  national  and  free  schools  has  not 
yet  been  extended.  I  am  glad  to  see  all  the  varieties  of 
life,  but  under  present  circumstances  this  is  a  very  solitary 
one.  Were  it  not  for  the  physician's  visits,  which  he  kindly 
makes  every  day,  I  should  live  totally  without  conversation 
in  its  true  sense.  The  people  are  good  and  honest-hearted, 
and  treat  me  as  if  I  belonged  to  a  higher  order  of  animals, — 
and  this  is  a  novel  situation  !  I  am  very  free  from  com- 
plaints, and  take  care  not  to  do  more  than  I  feel  able  to, 
and  if  I  am  superstitious  in  feeling  that  Providence  directed 
me  hither  at  this  time,  it  is  a  useful  superstition,  inasmuch 
as  it  gives  me  a  feeling  of  security  that  I  shall  be  guided 
and  strengthened  to  accomplish  the  work  appointed  for  me. 
Do  not  fear,  but  hope  and  pray  for  me. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  your  visit  to  Burcombe 
gratified  me  ;  you  could  not  have  obliged  me  more,  for  I 
should  have  been  so  suspicious  that  my  own  description  of 
it  and  its  inhabitants  might  be  a  partial  one,  that  I  doubt  if 
I  should  really  have  done  them  justice  at  home.  Jane  was 
as  much  pleased  with  the  effort  you  made  to  see  them,  as 
any  one  could  possibly  be,  and  more  pleased  with  the  visit 
itself  than  I  choose  to  tell  you.  I  have  most  kind  letters 
from  the  family  at  Penrith,  offering  to  come  for  me  when- 
13* 


150  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

ever  I  give  the  word  of  command  ;  it  is  a  delightful  rest  Ic 
look  forward  to,  but  it  will,  I  fear,  be  long  before  I  can  avail 
myself  of  it.  The  thoughts  of  home  are  to  me  now  some- 
thing like  the  dreams  one  has  of  heaven,  in  the  twilight 
hours  between  sleeping  and  waking  ;  I  dare  not  form  any 
definite  picture,  and  yet  the  idea  will  not  be  wholly  dis- 
carded. But  with  so  much  around  me  to  make  me  realize 
the  uncertainty  of  life,  and  exposed  to  actual  danger  every 
moment,  how  can  I  presume  even  to  hope  .''     May  I  be  able 

u)  say  from  the  heart,  '  Thy  will  be  done.' 

"  Mary." 

"  Osmotherli/,  October  23,  1825.  . 

"  My  dear  Coxtsin  :  — 

"  I  wrote  Emma  a  hurried  letter  a  few  weeks  since, 
giving  an  account  of  my  poor  cousin's  illness  and  death, 
and  then  hoped  that  I  should  soon  be  able  to  tell  a  happier 
tale,  to  relieve  the  anxiety  which  that  might  have  produced. 
But  it  is  not  yet  in  my  power,  and  I  should  not  venture  to 
write  at  all,  did  I  not  hope  that  all  your  uneasiness  on  my 
account  will  find  an  antidote  in  the  confidence  which  daily 
experience  increases  in  my  heart,  that  He  whose  arm  is 
mighty  to  save,  and  who  has  hitherto  protected  me  from  all 
danger,  will  still  extend  to  me  his  fatherly  care,  and  guide 
and  guard  me  under  all  the  events  of  his  providence.  You 
will  readily  believe  that  I  have  need  of  this  confidence  to 
strengthen  me,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  writing  this  by 
the  bedside  of  the  eldest  of  those  two  dear  little  orphans 
whom  my  cousin  left  in  my  care.  His  little  brother  had 
scarcely  recovered  from  his  fever,  when  I  was  obliged  to 
leave  him  to  attend  this  poor  child  with  the  same  fever,  and 
have  now  been  for  more  than  a  week  his  sole  nurse,  night 
and  day. 

"  But  to  give  you  an  adequate  idea  of  the  peculiarly  tr}'- 
ing  situation  in  wnich  I  have  been  placed  for  the  last  seven 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  151 

weeks,  I  must  recapitulate  the  story,  which  you  may  per- 
haps have  gathered  in  unconnected  details  from  my  letters 
to  Emma.  It  is  indeed  a  melancholy  one,  but  proves  to 
me  most  painfully  that  our  steps  are  oftentimes  guided  by 
a  wisdom  from  above,  far  beyond  our  own  limited  concep- 
tions. You  know  that  one  of  my  objects  in  coming  to 
England  was  to  try  to  do  something  more  than  I  had  hith- 
erto been  enabled  to,  for  the  comfort  of  my  poor  old  aunt, 
and  you  will  not  therefore  be  surprised  that  it  was  my  fixed 
resolution  not  to  return  until  I  had  an  opportunity  of  ascer- 
taining how  to  do  this  most  effectually.  When  at  last  I  did 
get  here,  it  was  with  the  expectation  of  staying  only  just 
long  enough  to  see  that  she  was  made  comfortable.  I  knew 
nothing  of  her  family  even  by  name,  and  of  herself  only 
that  she  was  old  and  feeble,  and  subject  to  fits  of  extreme 
melancholy.  I  had  not  any  anticipations  of  pleasure,  ex- 
cept from  the  feeling  that  I  was  doing  what  my  dear  father 
would  have  done,  and  fulfilling  one  of  the  duties  of  my  life. 
My  father  had  been  her  idol  through  life,  and,  as  I  have 
now  found,  almost  her  sole  dependence  ;  her  children  could 
do  little  for  her,  and  the  relations  she  had  in  England  knew 
nothing  of  "her.  She  was  of  course  most  delighted  to  see 
me,  and  prepared  to  devote  herself  with  all  her  faculties  to 
my  comfort.  But,  poor  body,  she  stood  in  need  of  all  that 
I  could  do  to  comfort  to  her. 

"  I  have  written  this  in  the  intervals  of  attendance  upon 
the  little  boy,  and,  as  you  may  perceive,  at  different  periods, 
for  I  seldom  sit  five  minutes  at  once.  It  is  now  the  25th,  and 
I  am  happy  to  say  he  is  a  little  better ;  but  I  scarcely  dare 
hope,  he  is  of  so  feeble  a  constitution.  I  left  him  yesterday 
under  the  influence  of  opium,  so  that  I  was  sure  he  would 
not  miss  me,  to  go  to  North  Allerton,  seven  miles  distant, 
to  meet  old  Mr.  McAdam  and  my  cousin  S ,  who  had 


152  SCENES    or    SLFFERI.XG. 

come  from  Penriih  in  their  carriage  for  me.  They  did  not 
come  hither,  fearing  that  strangers  would  be  but  intruders 
in  such  distress,  but  stopped  at  North  Allerton,  and  sent  an 
express  to  me  on  Sunday  night,  begging  me  to  return  with 
them  if  possible,  for  they  had  known  of  all  the  sickness 
which  surrounded  me,  and  feared  I  should  suffer  from  con- 
tagion. It  was  most  kind  in  them,  and  I  should  have  been 
most  happy  for  the  release  could  I  have  gone  with  an  easy 
conscience.  But  it  would  have  been  worse  than  inhuman 
lo  have  left  this  poor  little  sufferer,  beside  that  much  of 
the  business  which  I  have  undertaken  is  unfinished,  and  I 
should  not  think  I  had  done  my  duty  until  I  had  settled 
these  orphans  permanently.  But  I  thought  I  ought  to  go 
to  them  to  explain  this,  as  I  should  have  been  afraid  to 
have  had  them  come  here,  and  I  took  a  chaise  and  passed 
the  day  with  them.  My  patient  did  not  wake  up  enough  to 
know  I  was  away,  and  it  was  quite  a  refreshment  to  me. 
Am  I  not  most  fortunate  to  have  such  kind  friends  in  this 
strange  land .''  It  is  a  comfort  to  feel  that  I  have  such  a 
resting-place  when  my  labors  here  are  over,  and  cheers  me 
even  in  this  most  solitary  of  all  the  situations  in  which  I 
have  ever  been  placed.  Were  it  not  for  the  good  little  doc- 
tor who  attends  my  patients,  I  know  not  what  I  should  do 
My  cousin  cannot  leave  home  for  an  instant,  and  my  poor 
aunt  is  overwhelmed  with  all  these  distressing  events,  added 
to  the  continual  trial  which  the  melancholy  young  man  is  to 
all  of  us.  I  get  on  without  much  fatigue,  however,  and  have 
not  yet  been  obliged  to  sit  up  all  night ;  and  with  the  slecf* 
which  I  get  whenever  the  little  fellow  is  quiet,  I  do  very 
well.  He  has  been  vciy  much  out  of  his  head  the  greater 
part  of  the  time,  but  very  patient  when  he  is  sensible.  It 
is  now  ten  days  since  he  became  ill,  and  you  may  suppose 
he  is  somewhat  attached  to  his  cousin  by  this  time,  and  I  to 
him.  O,  if  you  could  look  in  upon  mc,  what  would  you 
say  ! 


SCENES    OF    SUFFEKIiXG.  153 

''  Ocfoher  30.  You  would  pity  me  now  if  you  could  look 
upon  me,  for  I  have  this  night  closed  the  eyes  of  the  dear 
child  whom  I  was  watching  when  I  wrote  the  above.  He 
seemed  better  daily  after  my  last  date,  and  on  Friday,  the 
28th,  sat  up  and  appeared  in  every  respect  on  the  recovery  ; 
his  appetite  was  good,  his  fever  reduced,  and  his  strength 
improving.  He  awoke  on  Saturday  early,  and  begged  for 
his  breakfast,  ate  a  light  one,  and  fell  asleep.  His  nose  had 
bled  a  little  the  evening  before,  but  not  much  ;  but  about 
eleven,  he  suddenly  threw  off  from  his  stomach  such  a 
quantity  of  blood,  as  proved  to  us  that  there  was  some  in- 
ternal rupture  in  the  head.  This  continued  through  the 
day  and  night,  increasing  in  violence.  No  earthly  power 
could  save  him  ;  all  was  done  that  could  be,  but  certain 
spots  which  appeared  upon  him  soon  after  the  bleeding 
commenced  decided  the  physician  that  he  could  not  live. 
He  lingered  until  this  evening,  and  died  from  absolute  ex- 
haustion at  ten  o'clock,  of  what  is  called  spotted  fever 
here  ;  — and  I  laid  with  him  after  the  spots  had  come  out, 
without  knowing  what  they  meant.  It  is  a  great  shock,  for 
I  felt  almost  secure  that  he  was  getting  better,  and  his  poor 
grandmother  is  nearly  distracted.  This  seems  to  affect 
her  more  than  all  ;  being  under  her  own  roof,  it  is  brought 
more  home  to  her  senses,  and  it  is  indeed  shocking  to  lose 
five  of  one  family  in  so  short  a  time.  I  am  sitting  up, 
while  a  woman,  who  has  been  with  me  through  this  dread- 
ful day,  gets  a  little  rest  by  the  side  of  my  aunt ;  but  as  I 
was  up  last  night,  I  am  in  such  an  agitated  state  that  I  am 
not  flt  to  write.  To  have  seen  four  human  beings  die  in 
the  short  space  of  eight  weeks  is  enough  of  itself  to  solem- 
nize one's  mind  ;  but  with  all  the  additional  circumstances 
which  have  attended  these,  no  wonder  that  my  heart  is  full 
to  overflowing.  This  was  a  fine  boy,  and  you  know  that 
(he  endearing  ways  of  a  sick  child  are  most  engaging  under 


154  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

any  circumstances,  and  when  that  child  is  an  orphan,  and 
dependent  upon  one's  self  entirely,  the  interest  is  indeed 
intense.  I  never  met  with  so  violent  a  case  of  fever,  and 
the  poor  suflerer  was  sensible  to  the  last  of  all  its  horrors. 
One  cannot  indeed  lament  for  him,  for  he  would  have  prob- 
ably had  but  a  hard  life.  Little  James  is  now  indeed  alone 
in  the  world,  happily  too  young  to  be  conscious  of  his 
loss ;  but  it  is  very  affecting  to  think  of  his  being  deprived 
of  father,  mother,  and  two  brothers  in  eight  weeks,  and  left 
so  perfectly  alone. 

"  November  2.  I  add  a  line  to  say  that  I  am  quite  well, 
"therefore  do  not  feel  anxious  about  me.  There  are  very 
many  cases  of  the  fever  in  the  village,  and  as  I  am  almost 
the  only  person  in  it  who  is  not  afraid  ef  infection,  1  still 
have  full  employment  in  assisting  the  poor  sufferers.  My 
cousin's  little  niece  is  still  very  ill.  1  have  indeed  been 
wonderfully  preserved  and  strengthened.  Heaven  save 
me  from  presumption,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  I  could 
not  have  lived  through  all  that  I  have,  unless  God  had  pro- 
tected me. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  M.  L.  P." 

We  need  not  attempt  to  add  any  thing  to  this 
simple  and  affecting  narrative  of  events  that  seem 
to  belong  to  a  more  remote  place  and  period  than 
England  and  our  own  day.  With  all  their  natural- 
ness and  the  stamp  of  reality,  it  would  not  be  diffi- 
cult—  as  indeed  has  been  done — to  clothe  them 
with  the  drapery  of  fiction,  and  weave  them  into  a 
romantic,  improbable  tale. 

But  the  tale  is  not  all  told.  The  scene  shifts  at 
this   point,  only  to    be  succeeded   by  another   not 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  155 

unlike,  nor  far  apart.  Near  the  end  of  November, 
Mary  was  released  from  present  duty  at  Osmotherly, 
took  a  reluctant  leave  —  yes,  with  her  generous  and 
clinging  affections,  a  reluctant  leave  —  of  the  fam- 
ily in  which  she  had  closed  the  eyes  of  five  mem- 
bers, and  was  carried  by  eager,  anxious  friends  to 
Penrith.  There,  in  the  bosom  of  a  charming  house- 
hold already  known  and  dear  to  her,  every  thing 
within  and  without  presented  as  strong  a  contrast 
to  the  situation  she  had  just  left,  as  words  could 
express.  Her  own  words  give  us  some  idea  of  it, 
in  the  first  letter  she  wrote  after  leaving  a  place 
associated  "  with  images  of  danger  and  death,"  and 
leaving  it,  as  she  supposed,  for  ever.  But  the  very 
next  letter  after  that  surprises  us  with  the  old  date 
of  "  Osmotherly  " ;  and  we  find  that  hardly  a  month 
had  passed  before  she  was  recalled  to  the  same  spot, 
the  same  painful  responsibilities,  and  far  greater 
danger  than  before,  as  the  result  proved.  But  again 
we  leave  her  to  tell  her  own  story. 

''Penrith,  Cumberland,  November  29,  1825 

"  My  dear  Cousin  :  — 
"  After  all  my  melancholy  letters  from  Osmotherly,  you 
will  be  glad  to  receive  one  of  another  date,  and  under  hap- 
pier circumstances.  My  last  letter  was  just  after  the  death 
of  the  dear  little  boy,  and  I  then  thought  I  should  be  able 
to  leave  there  very  shortly ;  but  it  was  not  until  the  26th, 
(after  1  had  been  there  twelve  weeks  instead  of  the  three 
which  I  intended  when  I  went,)  that  1  could  arrange  mat- 
ters so  that  I  could  give  up  my  charge  conscientiously  ;  anJ, 
after  all  my  efforts,  I  could  not  succeed  in  settling  the  busi- 
ness for  my  poor,  unfortunate  cousin.     I  left  it,  however,  in 


)56  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

a  fair  way  for  completion,  clothed  the  dear  little  orphan  fcr 
the  winter,  and  placed  him  with  his  aunt,  making  ail  the 
arrangements  which  my  limited  means  allowed  for  his  fu- 
ture support  ;  and  notwithstanding  the  incessant  trial  which 
I  had  there,  I  assure  you  it  was  not  without  many  painful 
feelings  that  I  took  leave  of  the  place,  for  ever.  I  had 
been  for  the  last  five  weeks  constantly  with  my  aunt,  and 
could  not  bear  to  leave  her  in  the  solitary  situation  to  which 
she  was  reduced  by  the  death  of  so  many  of  her  family. 
My  dear  little  Jamie  had  become  an  object  of  affection  to 
me,  heightened  to  an  extreme  degree,  since  he  was,  like 
myself,  left  without  parents  or  brother  or  sister.  I  longed 
to  take  him  as  my  own,  for  he  is  a  child  of  very  uncom- 
mon capacity,  and  I  fear  will  not  have  the  education  which 
he  deserves.  But  I  could  only  commit  him  in  faith  to  Him 
who  is  the  Father  of  the  fatherless,  who  will  not  suffer 
even  the  least  of  his  creatures  to  want  his  care.  I  think  I 
never  shall  forget  his  screams  of  agony  when  he  saw  me 
drive  away  ;  I  thought  his  little  heart  would  burst.  But 
childish  sorrow  is  soon  over,  and  he  will  forget  me  long 
before  I  shall  cease  to  love  him. 

"  According  to  an   arrangement  previously   made,   my 

cousin  S met  me  at  Greta  Bridge,  in  her  grandfather's 

carriage.  I  came  to  that  place  on  Thursday  in  a  postchaise, 
passed  the  night,  and  came  on  hither  the  next  day,  so  that 
I  had  only  about  thirty  miles  to  ride  alone,  and  as  I  got  a 
postboy  from  the  neighborhood  to  drive  me  all  the  way,  1 
felt  perfectly  safe,  and  found  no  inconvenience  whatever. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  kindness  of  this  family  to  me  ;  in- 
deed, I  am  made  to  feel  that  I  am  at  home  with  them  as  it 
I  had  always  belonged  to  them.  After  all  I  have  had  to 
suffer,  it  is  almost  like  the  rest  of  the  Sabbath  to  the  weary 
laborer,  and  if  kindness  and  petting  vv'ill  cure  one,  I  shall 
soon  recover  all  [  may  have  lost  during  my  dreadful  siege 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  157 

at  Osmotherly.  To  be  sure,  I  am  almost  bewildered  at  the 
change  from  constant  anxiety  and  labor  to  a  state  of  perfect 
idleness  and  indulgence,  but  I  will  try  and  make  a  good  use 
of  it ;  and  I  feel  so  entirely  convinced  that  this  most  amaz- 
ing preservation  of  my  life  must  be  for  some  useful  end, 
that  I  think  I  never  can  fall  into  an  insensible  or  cold  state 
again.  I  was  almost  glad  to  stay  from  here,  until  I  was 
quite  sure  I  had  not  suffered  from  infection,  for  although  I 
cannot  feel  much  faith  in  the  doctrine  of  contagion,  I  would 
not  run  any  risk  of  communicating  the  disease  to  others. 
It  is  the  opinion  of  many  physicians  here,  (and  my  little 
doctor  among  the  number,)  that  change  of  air  may  bring 
out  the  fever  which  would  lie  dormant  in  the  system  for  a 
Ions  time  without  it,  and  he  warned  me  not  to  feel  too 
secure  until  I  had  ti'ied  it.  But  I  do  not  yet  feel  any  symp- 
toms ;  weak  and  weary  I  am,  but  not  feverish,  and  having 
no  fear  am  the  more  safe. 

"  But  do  not  think  I  am  so  much  occupied  by  the  dis- 
tresses I  have  experienced  here,  as  to  be  unmindful  of  those 
which  have  visited  my  friends  at  home.  Your  letter  of  the 
20th  of  October,  and  Ann's  of  the  18th,  reached  me  on  the 
16th  of  November.  The  account  of  poor  Maria's  death 
shocked  me  very  much,  and  made  me  long  to  fly  home, 
that  I  might,  if  possible,  do  something  for  her  dear  little 
children.  I  wish  I  could  assist  them,  and  feel  that  there  is 
no  one  of  the  family  to  whom  the  duty  of  doing  it  is  so 
great.  I  beg  you  will  use  my  name  in  finy  case  in  which 
you  think  I  could  act  with  usefulness,  and  if  God  spare  me 
to  return  to  you,  I  promise  you  I  will  fulfil  all  you  may 

engage  for  me  to  the  best  of  my  powers It  tires 

me  so  much,  that  I  can  scarcely  write  intelligibly.  God 
bless  you ! 

"  Maby." 
14 


li^y  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

"  Osmotkerly,  December  31,  1825. 
"  My  dearest  Friend  :  — 

"  I  have  often  welcomed  this  anniversary  with  delight  j 
hut  under  all  the  various  circumstances  in  which  it  has 
found  me,  I  think  I  never  felt  the  value  of  the  privilege 
which  it  gives  me  of  writing  to  you  more  deeply  than  I  do 
at  this  moment. 

"  But  I  will  first  account  to  you  for  my  being  again  at 
this  place,  the  very  name  of  which  is  no  doubt  by  this  time 
associated  in  your  mind,  as  it  is  in  mine,  with  images  ot 
danger  and  death.  Of  the  events  which  took  place  during 
my  former  visit  here,  you  have  no  doubt  been  informed  by 
my  letters  to  Boston,  and  of  my  departure  from  it,  as  I 
thought  for  ever,  for  the  hospitable  abode  of  my  kind 
friends  at  Penrith,  where  I  was  enjoying  much  when  I  last 
wrote  home.  I  intended  staying  with  them  until  the  mid- 
dle of  January,  when  Mr.  McAdam's  appointed  journey 
south  would  secure  me  an  escort  to  Birmingham,  and  I  was, 
among  other  things,  anticipating  writing  this  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  same  most  delightful  society  which  was 
operating  upon  my  mind  on  this  night  last  year.  But  I  was 
doomed  in  this,  as  in  many  more  important  concerns,  to 
feel  the  uncertainly  of  all  calculations  for  the  future  ;  for 
on  the  23d  of  December  I  received  a  letter  from  the  phy- 
sician of  this  place,  written  at  the  request  of  my  aunt,  who 
was  apparently  dying  of  typhus  fever,  begging  me  if  possi- 
ble to  let  her  see  me  once  more.  I  knew  there  were  many 
reasons  which  made  it  important  that  I  should  come,  if  that 
were  indeed  her  situation  ;  find  at  the  advanced  age  of  sixty- 
eight,  with  a  most  feeble  frame,  I  could  not  dare  to  expect 
a  favorable  termination.  The  risk  of  returning  to  such  an 
infected  region  was,  of  course,  much  greater  than  my  for- 
mer residence  there,  but  thus  summoned  I  could  not  hesi- 
tate, and   my  good  friends,  even  more  fearful  and  anxious 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  159 

than  I  was,  could  not  attempt  to  dissuade  me.  It  was 
indeed  an  appalling  undertaking,  knowing  so  fully  the 
evils  to  which  I  was  coming  which  could  not  be  avoided, 
and  all  that  might  ensue  could  not  be  kept  out  of  sight. 

"  It  was,  I  assure  you,  with  many  solemn  thoughts, 
though  hid  by  cheerful  looks,  that  I  took  my  leave,  proba- 
bly for  ever,  of  that  good  family,  and  got  into  the  mail 
alone  on  the  morning  of  the  26th.  My  route  lay  across  the 
drearj"^  hill  Stanmoor,  and,  as  I  had  not  even  a  single  com- 
panion the  whole  eighty  miles  hither,  you  may  be  sure  my 
cogitations  were  many  and  various.  Among  other  things, 
I  was  struck  by  the  singular  coincidence  which  has  always 
given  to  Christmas  week  a  peculiar  interest ;  neither  could 
I  fail  to  consider,  on  recollecting  the  various  circumstances 
that  had  occurred  in  it,  how  deep  was  my  debt  of  gratitude 
to  that  Being  who  had  guided  me  through  them  all  in  safety. 

Dear  N ,  this   is  an   overwhelming   thought,  and   one 

which  every  day's  experience  forces  upon  my  mind  with 
Increasing  power,  a  power  of  which,  it  seems  to  me,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  conceive  under  any  other 
than  the  very  peculiar  circumstances  in  which  I  have  been, 
and,  it  would  seem,  am  still  doomed  to  live,  while  in  this 
country.  Imagine  me,  at  this  distance  from  all  to  whom  I 
have  been  accustomed  to  look  for  dependence,  a  being  alone 
in  creation  almost,  literally  alone  in  this  strange  land,  mak- 
ing an  excursion  of  eighty  miles  across  the  country,  partly 
in  coaches,  partly  in  postchaises,  without  a  being  to  protect 
me  or  appeal  to,  and  upon  such  an  errand,  —  and  yet  as  safe 
as  if  a  host  were  escorting  me,  calm,  quiet,  and  perfectly 
easy  as  if  I  were  taking  a  ride  to  Hingham  ;  and  then  tell 
me,  if  the  confiding  spirit  which  our  sacred  religion  creates 
in  our  souls  is  not  worth  all  that  we  could  possess  besides. 

"  I  arrived  here  in  eight  hours  after  I  left  Penrith,  and 
found  the  poor  old  lady  rather  better,  and  not  a  little  de« 


160  SCENES    OF    SUFFEIUXG. 

lighted  that  I  had  cared  enough  for  her  to  come.  She  has 
had  many  and  severe  trials  through  life,  to  which  those  of 
the  last  summer  were  but  a  sequel.  I  was  the  only  one  of 
her  own  relations  with  whom  she  had  come  in  contact  for 
many  years,  and  the  poor  souPs  heart  warmed  towards  me 
with  the  whole  force  of  her  long  shut  up  affections.  I  at 
once  installed  myself  as  sole  nurse  in  the  very  room  in 
which  I  had  watched  the  progress  of  disease  and  death 
upon  that  poor  child,  whose  case  I  mentioned  in  my  letter 
to  Emma  ;  and  here  am  I  now  writing  you  by  the  light  of 
a  rush  candle,  with  my  little  work-box  for  a  desk,  almost 
afraid  to  breathe  lest  I  should  disturb  my  aunt's  slumbers. 
We  two  are  the  only  beings  in  this  little  cottage,  for  I  have 
sent  her  sons  out  to  sleep,  as  a  precaution  against  the  fever, 
and  put  a  bed  into  the  corner  of  the  room  for  myself. 
Could  you  see  me  acting  in  the  fourfold  capacity  which  I 
adopt  in  this  humble  cottage,  you  would  hardly  believe  me 
to  be  the  same  being,  who,  a  week  ago,  was  installed  in 
all  the  honors  of  a  privileged  visitor,  amid  the  luxui'ies  of 
Cockel  House,  acting  '  lady '  solely,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
ability.  It  amuses  me  to  find  how  easily  it  all  sits  upon  me, 
and  how  readily  we  may  adapt  ourselves  to  varieties  of 
situation  and  find  something  to  enjoy  in  all.  Aunty  is  much 
better,  and  I  think  there  is  a  good  chance  for  her  recovery, 
at  least  to  as  good  a  state  of  health  as  she  was  in  before  this 
illness.  I  feel  little  evil  in  the  contrast,  great  as  it  is  to 
myself,  except  a  slight  cold,  which  the  very  sudden  change 
in  the  weather,  from  warm  and  damp  to  excessive  cold, 
lias  brought  me.  The  fields  to-day  are  covered  with  snow, 
the  first  time  I  have  seen  them  so  in  this  country,  and  it 
looked  so  homeish,  and  so  much  like  your  happy  home 
the  last  time  I  saw  it,  that  I  have  been  enjoying  the  sight 
highly  to-day,  while  every  one  beside  was  looking  blank  at 
it.     I  am  in  one  respect  more  comfortable  than  when  I  vvaa 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  ICl 

here  before,  for  I  have  one  companion.  The  '  little  doc- 
tor' has  his  only  sister  to  keep  his  house,  and  she  has 
already  made  herself  most  important  and  agreeable  to  me  ; 
she  has  only  been  here  a  week,  and  being  as  much  a 
stranger  as  myself,  we  have  some  feelings  in  common. 
She  is  a  very  lovely  little  creature,  twenty-one  only  in 
years,  but  older  in  experience.  Her  manner  is  suited  to 
tne  style  of  her  face, —  gentle,  winning,  and  at  the  same  time 
indicating  cultivation  and  elegance  of  mind.  Without  the 
slightest  shade  of  affectation  or  consciousness  of  beauty, 
she  not  only  gives  me  a  new  study  of  character,  but  is  a 
most  convenient  and  pleasant  associate  ;  living  in  the  next 
house  but  one,  I  can  call  upon  her  at  any  moment.  Some- 
thing always  comes  to  me  in  all  situations  to  prove  to  me 
the  care  which  is  taken  even  of  the  most  insignificant ;  and 
surely  the  v/hole  of  my  experience  in  this  place  has  been 
but  a  continued  lesson  of  it.  Indeed,  I  certainly  have  great 
cause  of  thankfulness,  for  that  only  dark  passage  in  my 
progress  since  I  left  home,  trying  as  it  was,  was  full  of  ad- 
monition. It  showed  me  a  part  of  the  great  plan  of  crea- 
tion of  which  I  knew  little  or  nothing  before,  a  class  of 
beings  whose  characters,  duties,  motives,  and  views  I  had 
never  before  understood  ;  and  above  all,  it  showed  me  how 
perfectly  the  various  links  in  the  great  chain  of  existences 
are  adapted  to  aid,  and  strengthen,  and  apply  to  each  other, 
adding  another  to  the  many  proofs  of  the  Supreme  Wisdom 
which  formed  and  governs  all. 

"  The  only  remnant  of  my  poor  cousin  Bessy's  fami'y 
is  a  boy  of  just  William's  age ;  he  was  ill  at  the  time  his 
mother  died,  and  became  my  immediate  charge  until  his 
brother  was  taken  sick,  and  grew  so  fond  of  me  that  it  was 
long  before  even  his  aunt,  whom  he  had  been  used  to  see- 
ing, could  make  him  content  to  be  separated  from  me.  Fie 
is  a  very  engaging  child,  bright,  and  of  a  noble  disposition 
14* 


162  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

and  temper.  The  similarity  of  our  situations  was  enough 
to  make  me  feel  more  than  common  tenderness  for  him, 
his  dependence  upon  me  increased  it,  and  his  strong  at- 
tachment to  me  completed  it.  1  think  I  never  felt  so  much 
for  a  little  creature  before,  and  were  it  not  for  the  great 
distance  I  should  have  to  take  him,  I  never  would  leave 
him  behind.  I  thought  he  would  have  broken  his  little 
heart  when  I  drove  away,  and  when  I  came  back  his 
ecstasy  was  really  affecting  ;  he  ran  round  me,  jumped  up 
in  my  lap,  stroked  and  kissed  my  face,  as  if  he  could  not 
trust  to  the  evidence  of  one  sense,  and  at  last  burst  out  a 
crying,  '  Uncle  Mady  wont  go  away  again ;  Uncle  Mady 
live  with  Jamie  every  day,  wont  you.  Uncle  Mady  ?  '  He 
had  always  a  trick  of  calling  me  '  Uncle.'  Do  not  think 
I  am  made  melancholy  by  all  this.  I  have  no  recollection 
of  ever  having  the  same  degree  of  good  spirits  as  I  have 
been  blessed  with  for  the  last  si.\  months,  —  I  may  say  nine  ; 
and  save  my  longing  for  home,  I  have  had  no  cause  to  wish 
any  one  thing  relating  to  me  different  from  what  it  has 
been.  God  grant  that  I  may  not  be  tempted  to  great  pre- 
sumption !  I  hope  my  wishes  are  humble,  though  my  con- 
fidence may  be  great. 

"  May  God  be  with  you,  my  dear  friend,  and  guide  and 
guard,  and  bless  you,  through  the  year  on  which  we  have 
now  entered,  and  for  ever,  —  is  the  earnest  prayer  of  your 

sincere 

"  Mary." 

But  with  all  her  cheerfulness,  and  self-forgetting, 
heroic  courage,  Mary  was  not  proof  against  danger 
and  disease.  It  is  well  for  us  to  learn  that  the  laws 
of  nature  are  not  suspended  nor  diverted  from  their 
course,  even  by  the  strongest  faith,  or  for  the  sake  of 
the  most  noble  and  useful  laborer.     Such  a  laborer 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  163 

there  was  here  ;  but  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that 
she  would  pass  unharmed,  the  second  time,  through 
auch  exposure,  fatigue,  and  painful  anxiety.  If  the 
transition  was  great,  at  first,  from  that  barren  and 
comfortless  place  to  the  luxuries  of  Penrith,  the 
change  back  again  must  have  been  peculiarly  trying. 
She  speaks  of  the  difference  between  the  two  places 
as  equal  to  that  between  the  most  sumptuous  dwell- 
ing in  Boston  and  the  farm-house  at  Brush  Hill. 
Nay,  the  contrast  there  was  yet  greater ;  for  the 
common  cottages  in  Yorkshire  had  no  floors  for  the 
first  story,  except  of  clay  and  sand.  Such  was  the 
house  in  which  all  that  previous  sickness  and  death 
had  occurred,  and  in  which  the  nurse  and  servant  of 
all  now  found  herself  again.  Sending  away  to  an- 
other house  the  melancholy  and  moaning  young 
man,  and  fixing  up  a  bed  for  herself  in  a  corner  of 
her  aunt's  small  room,  she  endeavored  to  keep  her- 
self from  the  night  air,  particularly  as  the  weather, 
after  a  long  course  of  warm  rains,  became  intensely 
cold.  But  in  vain  did  she  shun  exposure.  There 
was  work  to  be  done  out  of  doors  as  well  as  in,  and 
no  one  but  herself  to  do  it.  A  sudden  and  severe 
cramp  seized  her,  and  she  at  last  fell  upon  the  floor, 
when  alone  in  the  night,  and  there  lay  a  long  time, 
utterly  helpless,  striving  to  make  her  groans  heard 
by  some  one  in  or  out  of  the  house.  This  left  her  ^ 
in  a  state  of  extreme  debility,  from  which  nothing 
could  for  a  long  time  raise  her.  She  would  make  it 
appear  a  light  matter  when  it  was  over,  but  it  is 
evident,  from  her  own  expressions  and  other  facts, 
that  she  was  in  great  danger. 


164  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

"Penrith,  February  10,  1826. 

"  My  dear  Emma  :  — 

"  Your  last  letter  was  a  cordial  to  me,  and  came  at  ti 
time  when  1  greatly  needed  it ;  for  I  was  actually  suffering 
under  all  the  evil  which  you  were  fearing  for  me  when  you 
wrote  it,  —  confined  to  the  chamber  of  that  little  cottage 
which  I  have  described  to  you,  weak  and  languid,  the  mere 
shadow  of  what  I  was  when  I  parted  from  you.  But  for  the 
cause  and  effect  of  my  last  visit  to  Osmotherly  I  must  refer 

you  to  my  letters  to  N.  C.  P.  and  Mrs.  B ;  you  know  I 

cannot  bear  to  tell  the  same  tale  twice,  more  especially  if 
it  be  a  melancholy  tale. 

"  But  do  not  imagine  me  to  have  been  in  a  very  forlorn 
and  disconsolate  predicament,  for  I  had  many  blessings  to 
rejoice  in  all  the  while.  The  sun  shone  brightly  all  the 
day  full  upon  the  windows  of  our  comfortable,  neat  apart- 
ment, furnished  with  what,  in  her  former  prosperous  days, 
had  been  the  furniture  of  the  'spare  chamber'  (the  mu- 
seum of  precious  articles,  you  know)  of  Aunty's  '  bicn 
house';  Aunty  sitting  by  the  fire  in  her  easy  chair,  her 
bright  eyes  glistening  with  the  exhilaration  of  returning 
health  ;  and  my  ladyship  lying  on  the  bed,  thin  and  pale 
enough  I  grant,  but  in  as  high  glee  as  strength  would  per- 
mit, and  not  for  one  minute  depressed  ;  if  any  change  came, 
it  was  for  the  better,  and  my  nurses  remarked  that  my 
worst  days  were  my  gayest  ones.  Then  I  had  two  visits 
each  day  from  the  '  little  doctor,'  the  very  essence  of  good- 
humor  and  cheerfulness,  and  as  I  had  in  reality  but  little 
pain,  I  could  manage  to  enjoy  a  good  deal.  Besides,  I  had 
the  comfort  of  a  female  companion,  with  whom  I  could  as- 
.sociate  with  something  like  equality  of  feeling.  This 
was  the  sister  of  the  '  little  doctor,'  who  had  just  come  to 
Osmotherly  to  keep  house  for  him.  My  dear  little  Jcminy, 
too,  was  a  source  of  great  amusement  and  delight  to  me  ; 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  165 

he  had  improved  even  in  the  short  time  I  had  been  from 
him,  and  showed  some  new  and  interesting  trait  every  time 
I  saw  him.  I  left  all  behind  me,  however,  on  the  30th  of 
January,  not  without  many  regrets  as  you  may  believe,  for 
I  felt  it  was  now  certainly  for  ever ;  and  no  one  can  part 
from  those  who  have  been  kind  to  the  utmost  of  their 
power,  however  small  that  power  may  be,  without  sad  feel- 
ings. This  is  certainly  a  great  drawback  upon  the  pleasure 
one  takes  in  travelling,  and  I  sometimes  think,  when  the 
time  comes  that  I  must  do  the  same  to  all  I  have  known 
here  I  shall  wish  I  had  never  come.  But  I  do  not  like  to 
think  of  it. 

"  I  am  indeed  much  better  than  I  could  have  dared  to 
hope,  but  I  always  gain  fast  if  at  all,  and  this  week  of  eat- 
ing has  made  a  great  change  in  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
I  rejoice  at  this,  for  I  began  to  be  heartily  tired  of  m^ 
fictitious  character ;  I  did  not  realize  my  identity  when 
toddling  about,  catching  hold  of  chairs  and  tables  like  a 
child  just  going  alone,  as  I  did  last  week  ;  I  longed  to  shake 
myself  of  the  encumbrance,  or  that  the  scene  would  drop, 
and  let  me  scamper  away,  Mary  Pickard  again. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  seen  this  house,  for  it  will  aid  your 
imagination  a  little ;  but  you  can  scarcely  conceive  of  the 
appearance  of  comfort  which  pervades  this  room  as  it  is 
now  arranged.  The  gentlemen  have  all  deserted  us,  and 
just  now  Aunty  George,  Selina,  and  I  are  seated  in  true  spin- 
ster style  round  a  large  fire  in  the  drawing-room  up  stairs, 
(which  by  the  way  was  any  thing  but  comfortable  wljen 
you  saw  it,)  Aunty  at  full  length  upon  the  sofa  reading  on 
one  side,  Selina  on  the  other  writing,  and  1  in  the  front 
doing  the  same,  at  the  same  table  with  her.  Around  us 
are  arranged,  in  the  most  convenient  places,  piano,  flowers, 
tables  covered  with  books,  writing-desks,  &/C.,  ottomans 
ditto,  all  sorts  of  comfortable  chairs,  —  easy,  rocking,  fee. ; 


166  SCENIiS    OF    SUFFERING. 

in  the  corners,  shelves  with  collections  of  shells,  minerals, 
and  other  odd  things,  to  say  nothing  of  the  living  orna- 
ments. It  is  the  very  picture  of  comfort,  and  I  could  tell 
you  of  certain  sensual  luxuries  which  make  their  appear- 
ance upon  the  centre-table,  some  three,  four,  five,  or  perhaps 
six  times  a  day,  now  that  I  am  prohibited  from  descending 
to  the  dining-room  ;  but  that  would  destroy  the  intellectual 
charm  which  must  hang  round  the  image  of  Aunty  George. 
Mr^.  McAdam  writes  me  that  she  received  your  letter,  and 
really  begins  to  imagine  herself  a  '  monstrously  agreeable 
woman.'  You  must  have  given  her  a  good  dose,  I  think. 
She  has  been  in  a  fine  taking  about  this  illness  of  mine,  but 
is  cooling  a  little,  now  she  finds  I  am  not  satisfied  with  less 
than  four  meals  per  day.  How  shamefully  I  have  treated 
Emma's  kind  letter;  but  there  is  no  end  to  my  wickedness 
of  this  sort.  I  must  not  begin  with  confessions,  but  end 
them  by  confessing  myself  very  tired,  and  ever  your  sin- 
cere friend, 

"  M.  L.  P." 

"  ErJington,  near  Birmingham,  March  3,  1826. 

"  My  dear  Cousin  :  — 

"  I  have  continued  to  gain  strength  daily  since  I  last 
wrote.  Miss  McAdam  passed  a  week  in  Liverpool,  during 
which  time  Sclina  and  I  kept  house  at  Cockel ;  and  after 
passing  my  last  ^gw  days  there  in  the  most  delightful  man- 
ner, with  all  the  good  inmates,  I  left  them  on  the  26th. 
Mr.  McAdam  kindly  insisted  on  coming  by  the  way  of 
Erdington,  that  I  might  not  be  obliged  to  travel  all  the 
wav  alone.  We  found  a  great  chanire  on  this  side  the 
hills  of  Westmoreland  ;  the  grass  is  green,  and  every  thing 
putting  forth,  the  lambs  bleating  and  the  birds  singing  as 
if  it  were  May. 

" I  had  given  Mr.  B notice  of  my  inten- 


SCENE&    OF    SUFFERING.  167 

lion  to  come  to  him  at  this  time,  and  found  him  looking  out 
for  me  even  at  the  gate,  with  characteristic  impatience,  on 
Tuesday  about  noon,  and  not  a  little  delighted  to  see  me 
at  last.  You  know  how  strongly  attached  he  was  to  my 
father  and  mother,  and  indeed  to  the  whole  family  ;  his 
enthusiastic  feelings  have  fully  retained  the  remembrance 
,  of  what  he  enjoyed  with  them,  and  any  one  who  be- 
longed to  them  would  have  been  most  welcome  to  him. 
Besides  this,  he  used  to  pet  me,  and  took  a  great  deal  of 
pains  to  teach  me,  and  I  thought  the  little  body  would  have 
lost  his  wits  when  he  saw  me  ;  he  is  a  kind-hearted  man, 
and  with  all  his  peculiarities  one  cannot  but  respect  and 
love  him.  You  may  remember  what  a  little  oddity  he  was 
in  appearance  when  he  was  in  Boston,  and  I  assure  you 
increasing  years  have  not  at  all  lessened  his  peculiarity 
His  face  is  not,  I  think,  altered  in  the  least ;  his  hair  is  stil. 
a  bright  brown,  cvti  as  short  as  scissors  can  do  it,  upon  which 
he  usually  mounts  a  small  sailor's  wove  hat,  from  beneath 
the  narrow  rim  of  which  his  little  bright,  gray  eyes  twinkle 
in  a  most  animated  manner.  His  common  dress  is  a  pep- 
per-and-salt frock-coat,  which  has  been  apparently  in  the 
service  many  long  years,  the  waist  of  which  just  divides 
his  height,  coming  down  to  the  chair  when  he  sits ;  a 
straight,  long  waistcoat  of  the  same  materials,  and  a  col- 
ored neckerchief  tied  as  tightly  as  possible  round  his  little 
neck  ;  breeches  of  purple-corded  velvet,  fastened  at  the 
knee  with  a  little  steel  buckle,  white  worsted  stockings,  and 
a  pair  of  what  have  been  long  leather  gaiters,  pushed  down 
over  the  ankles  a  la  negligee.  Fancy  this  little  odd  figure 
moving  about  as  briskly  as  if  he  were  a  boy  just  loose  from 
school,  the  vivacity  of  his  manner  and  looks  corresponding 
exactly  with  the  quickness  of  his   motions,  and  you  have 

my  little  friend  Mr.  B .     You  would  think  all  this  must 

be  ludicrous,  but  it  is  not.     There  is  so  much  good  sense 


]G8  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

and  kind  feeling  about  him,  and  so  much  real  benevolence 
in  his  manner  towards  every  one,  that  all  his  peculiarity  is 
forgotten  in  a  very  short  time.  He  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
telligent, entertaining  men  I  ever  met  with,  and  certainly 
one  of  the  most  warm-hearted.  He  has  passed  a  very  un 
settled  life  since  he  left  America,  and  is  now  living  in  a 
poor  cottage,  quite  out  of  the  way  of  all  society,  with  no 
amusement  but  his  little  garden,  which  he  cultivates  entire- 
ly himself,  and  a  fine  library  of  most  valuable  books.  This 
is  quite  enough  for  him,  and  he  seems  as  happy  and  con- 
tented as  possible,  because  he  is  independent.  His  sane- 
tU7n  is  more  like  grandpa's  than  any  I  ever  saw ;  he 
reminds  me  of  him  in  many  things,  and  we  have  talked 
over  old  times  until  I  have  fancied  myself  young  again. 

"  You  may  form  some  idea  of  my  strength,  when  1  tell 
you  I  was  yesterday  tempted  by  the  pleasure  of  my  own 
company  to  a  walk  of  eight  miles,  and. did  not  suspect  I 
had  done  half  of  it.  I  have  indeed  recovered  my  strength 
rapidly,  and  do  not  care  about  the  flesh.  I  believe  I  am  as 
well  as  I  ever  was,  and  should  forget  that  I  had  been  ill, 
were  it  not  for  certain  feelings  of  inefficiency  and  reluc- 
tance to  move,  —  the  consequence  of  the  indulgences  I 
have  had,  I  presume.  I  have  indeed  had  enough  to  make 
a  spoiled  child  of  me,  had  I  not  been  one  before.  It  is  no 
light  burden  upon  my  mind,  that  I  can  do  nothing  to  sliovv 
my  gratitude  for  all  the  kindness  1  have  received  here.  I 
do  begin  to  dread  [larting  for  ever  from  all  these  good 
friends;  but  do  not  think  that  any  thing  can  efiace  the  re- 
membrance of  what  I  owe  my  dearest  friends  at  home. 

"  Mary." 

"  London,  May  26,  1826. 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Barnard  :  — 
"  Mr.  Bond  had  a  letter  yesterday  from  Mrs.  B.  of  April 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  169 

21st,  in  which  she  says  you  had  heard  of  mv  illness  at 
Osmotherly.  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  you  would  at 
the  same  tu-ne  hear  of  my  entire  recovery,  and  I  hope  be- 
fore this  you  have  received  other  letters  to  tell  you  how 
complete  was  that  recovery.  It  is  indeed  overpowering  to 
me,  when  I  look  back  upon  the  events  which  have  taken 
place  since  I  came  to  England.  How  many  and  great  have 
been  the  blessings  which  have  attended  me  ! 

"  I  staid  here  with  Mrs.  Bates  from  the  4th  to  the  30th 
of  April,  seeing  and  doing  very  diligently,  and,  with  Mr. 
Paine's  assistance,  examining  many  of  the  wonders  and 
curiosities  of  this  great  place,  which  I  had  not  before  seen. 
I  then  went  to  Chatham  to  make  my  farewell  visit  to  my 
cousin,  Mrs.  Stokes,  intending  to  stay  only  a  fortnight ;  for 
I  did  not  then  know  at  what  time  precisely  Mr.  Palfrey  in- 
tended to  embark  for  home,  and  was  making  my  arrange- 
ments to  be  ready  the  latter  part  of  June  at  the  farthest.  I 
was  not,  however,  able  to  return  at  the  time  I  intended,  for 
I  was  attacked  very  violently  with  spasms  from  being  very 
bilious,  and  the  heavy  doses  administered  by  the  physician 
kept  me  housed  for  more  than  a  week.  I  returned  to  town 
on  Monday  last,  the  22d,  and  came  again  to  Mrs.  Bates, 
as  she  begged  me  to  make  her  house  my  home  in  London, 
as  long  as  I  staid.  I  was  very  much  wearied  with  the 
journey,  and  Mr.  Palfrey  and  Mr.  Bond,  who  came  in  soon 
after,  thought  I  must  be  ill,  and  may  say  so,  but  I  assure 
you  I  am  not.  I  gain  strength  very  fast,  and,  as  a  proof  of 
it,  I  was  nearly  seven  hours  on  my  feet  yesterday,  without 
food,  and  not  fatigued  by  it.  I  shall  stay  here  only  just 
long  enough  to  see  the  friends  I  have  about  London,  and 
pack  up  my  duds  for  the  voyage,  and  then  go  to  Ash  and 
Uncle  Ben  for  a  few  days,  and  thence  to  Burcombe  to  stay 
as  long  as  I  can. 

"  I  feel  now  that  my  work  here  is  finished,  (that  is,  all 
15 


170  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

the  most  important  part, —  I  could  find  enough  to  do  were  1 
to  stay  ever  so  long,)  and  I  assure  you  I  should  feel  most 
impatient  of  delay  beyond  the  time  appointed.  Mr.  Bond 
brought  me  Mr.  Channing's  Review  yrom  himself;  you  may 
believe  I  was  not  a  little  pleased  that  he  should  think  of  me. 
1  beg  you  will  thank  him  for  me.  How  I  shall  enjoy  hear- 
ing him,  if  such  a  blessing  is  in  store  for  me  !  Love  to 
yoij  and  the  household. 

"  M.  L.  P." 

During  the  progress  of  events  recorded  in  these 
diflerent  letters,  covering  the  space  of  a  whole  winter, 
we  can  imagine  that  some  anxiety  was  felt  by  friends 
on  both  sides  of  the  water.  Communication  with  re- 
mote towns  and  obscure  hamlets,  even  in  England, 
was  not  frequent  or  easy  ;  and  across  the  ocean  we 
all  know  how  different  was  the  correspondence  then 
and  now.  Accordingly,  we  find  the  deepest  solici- 
tude expressed,  and  painful  suspense,  in  both  lands. 
The  manner  in  which  the  English  friends  write 
shows  the  extent  of  Mary's  danger,  as  well  as  the 
amount  of  her  services  and  their  exalted  and  tender 
estimate  of  her  worth.  We  are  not  in  possession  of 
as  many  letters  from  England,  relating  to  any  pe- 
riod, as  we  have  wished  to  obtain ;  and  the  few  we 
have  we  hesitate  to  use  freely,  because  of  their  allu- 
sions to  domestic  incidents  and  persons  who  may  be 
still  living.  But  abundant  is  the  testimony,  if  we 
need  it,  to  their  appreciation  of  Mary's  character, 
warm  and  enthusiastic  their  love  and  admiration. 
A  few  sentences  we  take  from  the  letters  of  Mrs. 
McAdam,  the  'Aunt  Jane'  so  often  named,  to  a 
friend  here. 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  171 

Octoler,  1825.  "  I  have  a  letter  this  morning  from  our 
blessed  Mary,  dated  the  3d  of  October.  She  has  laid  her 
poor  cousin  in  the  grave,  after  a  fortnight's  illness,  during 
which  time  she  appears  to  have  been  her  sole  nurse.  I  dread 
she  is  doing  far  more  than  she  can  bear.  The  younger  of  the 
two  boys  left  is  taken  ill,  and  she  talks  of  taking  him  home 
to  nurse  him  ;  but  I  shall  by  this  post  write  Miss  McAdam 
to  send  for  her  and  insist  on  her  removal.  Her  life  is  of 
so  much  more  consequence  than  any  which  are  now  left, 
that  I  can  no  longer  hesitate.  You,  who  love  her  as  well 
as  I  do,  can  imagine  my  uneasiness.  Rest  assured,  how- 
ever, that  I  will  keep  you  informed  of  every  thing.  When 
she  wrote,  she  said  she  had  so  much  to  do  she  could  not 
write  home,  and  begged  me  to  write.  Now,  my  dear 
friend,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  rely  on  that  God  who  orders 
all  things  for  the  best,  and  to  whom  I  constantly  and  ar- 
dently pray  that  He  would  spare  and  reward  our  and  His 
own  Mary,  to  guide  more  of  us  to  Him ;  and  I  feel  com- 
forted when  I  rely  with  confidence  on  His  love  and  wisdom. 
She  is  such  a  blessing,  that  I  would  fain  hope  the  rest  of 
my  days  may  be  influenced  by  her." 

From  the  same  :  — 

November,  1825.  "  Since  I  last  wrote  you,  my  dear 
Emma,  I  have  had  various  accounts  from  our  incomparable 
Mary.  I  feel  much  anxiety  on  her  account,  for  which  I 
have  been  frequently  reproved  by  her,  whose  higher  feel- 
ings and  better  regulated  judgment  give  her  such  wonder- 
ful advantage  over  me,  and  so  constantly  produce  in  her 
the  tranquil  security  of  inward  peace.  She  is  so  excellent, 
and  so  truly  set  in  the  midst  of  difficulties,  that  it  sometimes 
appears  to  me  as  if  she  had  been  graciously  lent  to  us  for 
our  guide  to  that  heaven  which  we  all  pretend  to  seek. 
When  she  wrote,  she  VMas  perfectly   well;  but  though  our 


172 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 


friends  went  for  her,  she  would  not  leave  for  several  days, 
lest  she  should  take  the  disease  with  her  to  Penrith.  I  dare 
not  say  I  wish  she  were  removed,  for  all  is  assuredly  for 
the  best,  however  it  may  appear  to  our  imperfect  minds. 
I  feel  confident  she  is  the  peculiar  care  of  the  God  she 
loves  and  serves ;  but  when  she  gets  to  Penrith,  I  know  I 
shall  be  almost  too  happy.  Her  mind  has  taken  such  com- 
plete possession  of  my  affections,  that  I  appear  to  myself  a 
new  creature  ;  I  have  totally  changed  since  I  became  actu- 
ally acquainted  with  her Our  correspondence 

will  not  drop  here,  I  hope  ;  and  I  may  at  some  future  pe- 
riod give  you  a  faint  idea  of  the  interest  she  has  excited 
^or  every  thing  that  lives  and  breathes  her  atmosphere." 

From  the  letters  written  in  America  at  this  time, 
to  Mary  or  her  friends  in  England,  many  touching 
passages  might  be  borrowed.  How  much  is  con- 
veyed in  a  single  fact  communicated  to  her,  at  the 
moment  of  the  greatest  anxiety !  "  With  all  their 
desire  for  your  return,  nobody  murmurs  ;  every  body 
fiays  it  is  much  better  for  you  to  stay.  And  Mrs.  Bar- 
nard says,  when  she  expressed  her  sorrow  about  it  to 
Dr.  Channing,  he  gave  her  for  the  only  time  in  his 
life  almost  an  angry  look !  "  The  writer  of  this  pas- 
sage, when  at  last  assured  of  Mary's  perfect  safety 
after  all  her  labors  and  perils,  sent  her  such  a  full, 
hearty  outpouring  of  joy  and  love,  that  we  must  be 
pardoned  for  citing  a  part  of  it,  as  showing  the 
depth  of  the  interest  she  awakened  and  the  affection 
she  secured. 

"  My  dearest  live  Mary  :  — 
"  The  pleasure  and  gratitude  I  feel  in  the  confidence  I 
now  have  that  I  am  writing  to  an  inhabitant  of  this  world, 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  173 

you  can  scarcely  imagine.  The  dread  I  felt  about  your 
fate  weighed  upon  me  so  heavily,  in  spite  of  all  the  reason- 
ing and  hope  about  which  I  sedulously  employed  myself, 
that  it  was  a  great  effort  to  write ;  and  I  fear  our  letters  of 
late  have  not  served  to  animate  you.  I  shall  not  enter 
upon  the  long  history  of  my  anxiety,  which  was  inwardly 
greater  than  any  body's,  I  believe,  because  I  knew  more 
about  it.  I  will  only  tell  you,  that  a  question  about  you  was 
sure  to  damp  the  best  spirits  I  could  be  in  ;  and  if  people  I 
visited  undertook  to  talk  about  you,  it  was  a  signal  for  my 
call  to  terminate.  At  one  time,  I  determined  not  to  go  to 
town  till  I  heard  from  you,  but  was  induced  to  alter  my 
plans,  and  did  go  and  pass  a  month,  doing  all  I  could  to  be 
at  ease,  and  acting  just  as  if  I  knew  you  were  safe  ;  —  how 
you  want  to  scold  me  for  using  that  word !  as  if  you  could 
be  any  thing  but  safe  in  the  hands  of  your  God,  and  when 

you  were  serving  him  to  the  utmost  of  your  power 

On  Monday  night,  the   13th  of  this  month,  M ,  E 

B ,  and  I  found  our  way  to  Milton  Hill  in  the  '  even- 
ing coach.'  The  next  day,  that  most  valued  of  couriers, 
the  milkman,  brought  us  a  bundle  from  Pearl  Street ;  two 
letters  fell  out  on  opening  it,  —  one  from  Exeter,  the  other 

from  the  Sandwich  Isles,  —  a  long  one  from  B ,  which 

I  employed  all  the  daylight  in  reading.  Would  you  believe 
me  so  insatiable,  when  one  such  blessina;  as  hearino;  from 
that  distant  spot  of  earth  had  been  allowed  ?  I  was  not 
yet  satisfied,  although  we  had  left  town  but  the  day  be- 
fore ;  presentiment  drove  me  to  the  pile  of  clean  clothes 
on  the  floor,  when  my  hand  made  its  way  through  the  chaos 
to  a  letter  !  Mother  says  it  was  the  sense  of  feeling  that 
discovered  it  to  be  yours,  for  the  room  was  quite  dark.  I 
needed  but  half  a  glimmer  of  fire-light  to  show  me  the  char- 
acters I  had  so  longed  and  prayed  to  see  once  more.  I 
screeched,  '  Mary  Pickard  ! '  and  flew  to  the  kitchen  fire  to 
15* 


174  SCENES    OF    SUFFERING. 

assure  myself  still  farther ;  and  never,  dearest  Mary,  did  i 
feel  a  warmer  flood  of  joy  and  gratitude  than  when  '  Pen- 
rith, 8th  December,'  convinced  me  you  were  alive  and 
well,  and  in  just  the  hands  you  ought  to  be  !  And  when  I 
came  to  know,  too,  that  my  fears  had  not  been  unfounded, 
that  you  had  so  narrowly  escaped,  had  passed  through  such 
trying  scenes,  and  done  more,  much  more,  than  almost  any 
body  ever  did  before,  I  was  too  happy  !  Though  you  don't 
tell  me  so,  I  know  under  such  circumstances  what  eflforts 
you  made.  But  you  have  earned  the  privilege  of  being  an 
instrument,  in  the  hands  of  the  All-powerful,  of  good  to 
every  human  being  you  come  in  contact  with.  And  when 
I  knew  this,  why  did  I  feel  so  forlornly  whenever  I  thought 
of  you  in  that  remote  place,  alone,  and  exposed  to  fatigue 
and  illness?  If  it  had  been  you,  how  much  higher  views 
would  you  have  taken  ! 

"  Emma." 

So  ended  the  visit  to  England.  How  unlike  most 
visits  there  I  It  is  not  often  that  two  years  are  spent 
abroad  chiefly  in  confinement  with  the  sick  and 
devotion  to  the  dying.  We  wonder  not  that  Mary 
Pickard  thought  that  such  employment  was  her 
"  destiny."  More  appropriate  does  the  word  seem 
than  the  common  term,  "  mission " ;  for  that  ex- 
presses too  much  of  design  and  consciousness  to  be 
associated  with  her.  She  projected  no  large  plans, 
or  distant  enterprises.  She  simply  held  herself  ready 
for  the  work  to  which  she  might  be  summoned, 
abroad  as  well  as  at  home,  and  with  an  ambition 
as  easily  satisfied  at  home  as  abroad.  All  her  min- 
istrations might  seem  to  have  been  accidental,  if 
any  thing  were  accidental ;  —  the  occasions  sought 
her,  more  than  tiiey  were   sought  by   her.     Yet  in 


SCENES    OF    SUFFERING.  175 

some  way  or  other  the  occasions  were  sure  to  ap- 
pear, and  equally  sure  to  be  used.  Nor  were  her 
charities  merely  those  of  the  hand,  or  of  time  and 
toil  alone.  There  was  benevolence,  as  well  as  dili- 
gence. No  one  knew,  no  one  will  ever  know,  the 
amount  of  her  direct  gifts  at  Osmotherly.  But  we 
know,  from  various  sources,  that  they  were  free  and 
large.  And  by  no  means  were  they  restricted  to  her 
kindred.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  whole 
village  shared  her  bounty ;  in  moderate  measure, 
of  necessity,  but  in  decided  liberality.  From  the 
nature  and  power  of  the  disorder,  a  general  panic 
prevailed,  aggravated  by  ignorance  and  superstition, 
and  followed  by  improvidence  and  want.  We  have 
seen  the  statement,  that  a  large  proportion  of  the 
inhabitants  either  perished  or  became  helpless  and  a 
burden.  And  when  the  sufferings  of  her  own  con- 
nections ceased,  by  death  or  recovery,  Mary  went 
out  to  do  what  she  could  among  the  diseased  and 
destitute  generally.  She  toiled  till  the  alarm  abated, 
and  aimed  particularly  to  remove  from  the  minds 
and  dwellings  of  the  people  those  fruitful  feeders,  if 
not  sources,  of  the  calamity,  —  superstition  and  un- 
cleanness.  Is  it  too  much  to  believe,  that  Osmoth- 
erly will  always  feel  the  blessing  of  that  Providence 
which  sent  there  the  "  good  lady  "  ? 

It  was  a  beautiful  termination  of  her  whole  experi- 
ence among  that  people, —  whose  very  dialect  differed 
so  much  from  hers,  that  they  could  scarcely  under- 
stand her  words,  but  easily  read  her  actions,  —  that, 
when  she  recovered  her  own  strength  sufficiently  to 
take  a  final  leave  of  them,  the  whole  village  came  out 
in  a  body,  young  and  old,  and  escorted  her  on  her  way. 


VIII. 

NEW    RELATIONS. 

Mary  Pickard  returned  from  England  in  the 
summer  of  1826,  and  was  warmly  welcomed  by  her 
many  friends  in  Boston.  Her  last  home  before  go- 
ing abroad  had  been  at  Miss  Bent's  in  Washington 
Street,  where  she  now  went,  and  stayed  through  the 
fall  and  winter  with  the  exception  of  short  visits  to 
friends  in  the  vicinity.  Thronged  with  visitors,  and 
occupied  with  business  of  her  own  which  she  never 
left  to  others  if  she  could  do  it  herself,  she  had  no 
time  for  large  correspondence,  and  we  find  few  let- 
ters for  some  months.  But  there  are  brief  notes 
which  show  the  fulness  of  her  enjoyment  and  grati- 
tude, enhanced  by  the  recollection  of  the  trying 
scenes  through  which  she  had  passed,  but  which 
she  rarely  named  and  never  magnified,  as  we  are 
assured  by  some  who  were  constantly  with  her. 
The  mercies  of  the  past,  more  than  the  trials,  filled 
her  thoughts.  "  My  whole  absence  has  been  but  a 
succession  of  mercies,  i'or  which  I  could  not  in  a 
long  life  show  the  gratitude  I  feel  ;  and  this  the 
greatest  of  all,  the  safe  restoration  to  my  beloved 
home  and  blessed  friends,  —  it  is  indeed  overwhelm- 
ing. I  have  been  borne  through  alllictive  trials  by 
that  Power  which  alone  can  enable  us  to  bear  them , 


NEW     RELATION'S.  177 

may  I  also  find  the  same  strength  sufficient  to  keep 
me  firm  and  uninjured,  amid  the  greater  trial  of  pros- 
perity and  joy."  This  was  said  to  one  of  her  former 
instructors  in  Hingham,  with  whom  she  spent  a  week 
in  November,  reviving  the  memory  of  the  "  first 
awaking  of  the  mind  to  high  and  holy  thoughts  and 
resolves." 

To  the  trial  of  prosperity  of  which  she  speaks,  she 
may  have  been  exposed  at  this  time,  if  at  any.  She 
had  returned  after  a  long"  absence,  in  which  she  had 
accomplished  all  that  she  proposed,  and  more  than 
to  most  minds  would  have  seemed  possible.  She 
was  again  in  the  rnidst  of  endeared  and  delighted 
friends,  more  free  from  care  and  solicitude  for  others 
than  she  had  ever  been  before ;  her  society  sought  by 
a  larger  circle  of  devoted  and  admiring  acquaintance, 
paying  her  marked  attention.  There  was  every 
thing  to  gratify,  and  much  to  flatter.  And  she  was 
happy,  very  happy,  —  "more  lively  and  joyous,  I 
think,  than  at  any  time  of  her  life,"  writes  an  inti- 
mate friend.  But  she  did  not  remain  long  unem- 
ployed, or  live  for  herself.  She  sought  other  objects 
of  interest,  places  and  ways  of  laboring  for  those  in 
need.  She  took  classes  of  poor  children  in  more  than 
one  Sunday  school,  and  visited  the  houses  of  the  poor 
during  the  week  ;  of  several  families  in  Sea  Street 
she  is  said  to  have  taken  particular  care  through 
that  first  season,  though  a  season  crowded  with  en- 
gagements of  friendship  and  society,  and  occupied 
before  its  close  with  an  unexpected  and  absorbing 
interest. 

The  last  night  of  the  year,  Mary  made  one  of  that 


178  NEW     RELATIONS. 

great  congregation  who  listened  to  that  discourse 
of  Henry  Ware  on  the  "  Duty  of  Improvement," 
which  few  who  heard  have  forgotten,  and  of  which 
one  hearer  has  said,  "  No  words  from  mortal  lips 
ever  affected  me  like  those."  We  may  conceive 
the  emotions  with  which  they  were  heard  by  her,  in 
whose  mind  religious  concerns  were  always  para- 
mount, and  who  already,  as  we  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve, was  compelled  to  feel  a  personal  interest  in 
the  preacher.  For  we  now  approach  that  event 
which  is  considered  the  crisis  of  a  woman's  life,  and 
which  was  certainly  to  change  the  whole  aspect  of 
a  life  that  was  felt  to  be  peculiarly  insulated.  But 
we  may  be  anticipating.  No  engagement  yet  exist- 
ed, and  in  the  letter  written  after  the  services  of  the 
"  last  night "  to  one  who  was  never  forgotten  on  that 
occasion,  there  is  no  allusion  to  new  events,  unless 
in  the  close. 

"  Boston,  December  31,  1826. 

"  Were  I  by  your  side,  dearest  N ,  I  might  be  able 

to  satisfy  myself  by  talking ;  but  when  I  think  of  commit- 
ting to  paper  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  I  am  almost  dis- 
couraged, and  have  a  great  mind  to  give  up  the  attempt. 
I  do  verily  believe  I  should  for  once  play  truant,  and  shut 
up  my  desk,  did  I  not  fear,  should  I  do  so,  that  the  ghost  of 
the  departing  year  would  start  up  in  visible  form  before 
me  and  pronounce  a  fearful  malediction  upon  me  for  my 
apostasy.  Indeed,  so  wedded  am  I  to  old  customs,  and 
really  superstitious  about  the  fulfilment  of  certain  vows, 
that  I  should  not  dare  to  hope  for  peace  or  prosperity  for 
the  year  to  come,  if  I  allowed  myself  to  yield  to  the 
tempter. 


NEW    RELATIONS.  179 

*'  When  I  look  back  only  upon  the  past  month,  I  feel  as 
if  it  were  the  work  of  an  age  to  give  you  any  idea  of  its 
interest ;  and  when  the  year,  nay,  years,  of  which  I  wish 
to  speak  come  in  array  before  my  mind's  eye,  it  is  not 
strange  that  I  know  not  how  to  begin,  or  how  to  confine 
myself  to  the  limits  of  a  sheet  of  paper.  You  know,  how- 
ever, enough  of  the  circumstances  of  the  past  year  to 
understand  something  of  the  feelings  which  this  period  has 
brought  with  it.  Perhaps  I  am  inclined  to  exaggerate  the 
peculiarity  of  the  events  of  my  life,  which,  after  all,  may 
have  been  no  more  exciting  than  every  body  meets  with ; 
but  be  that  as  it  may,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  magnifying 
the  blessings.  And  as  there  is  more  hope  of  attaining  a 
high  degree  of  excellence,  if  our  standard  of  comparison 
be  high  (even  if  it  be  beyond  our  reach),  so  I  will  hope 
that  the  more  enlarged  is  our  estimate  of  our  subjects  for 
gratitude,  the  more  deep  and  heartfelt  will  our  gratitude  be. 
It  does  seem  to  me,  that  no  being  can  have  more  for  which 
to  give  thanks,  than  I  have  in  past  and  present  blessings  ; 
and  that  no  one  can  fall  as  far  short  as  I  do  of  the  effect 
that  should  follow  such  a  belief. 

"  I  have  been  reading  the  letter  I  was  writing  you  at  this 
time  last  year,  and  it  does  make  me  tremble  to  the  very 
soul,  when  I  contrast  my  situation  now  with  what  it  then 
was,  to  think  how  much  is  required  of  one,  who  has  been 
saved  from  such  peril,  and  brought  back  to  so  much  good. 
But  it  is  in  vain  to  attempt  to  tell  you  what  I  think  or  feel 
at  this  hour.  One  idea  above  all  the  rest  will  rise,  and  this 
you  will  join  me  in,  —  that  the  proofs  which  the  experience 
of  the  past  year  gives  of  the  never-ceasing,  all-sufficient 
care  of  God  should  make  us  look  forward  with  perfect 
trust  to  whatever  the  future  may  bring,  without  a  doubt 
that  all  will  be  well  that  He  directs,  —  that  our  weakness 
will  be  strengthened,  our  fear  removed,  and  our  spirits  sus- 


180  NEW     RELATIONS. 

tallied  anil  soothed  under  all  trials,  if  we  will  but  rest  in 
faith  upon  his  almighty  arm.  I  have  felt  this  so  much,  that 
I  had  begun  to  be  presumptuous,  and  almost  thought  that 
no  possible  temptation  could  make  me  doubt  its  sufficiency. 
But  I  dare  not  hope  so  much.  I  find  there  are  temptations 
of  which  I  have  hitherto  known  nothing,  and  under  the  in- 
fluence of  which  I  may  have  to  learn  a  new  lesson.  It  is 
said  of  Bishop  Sewell,  who  once  most  strangely  departed 
from  his  faith,  that  his  fall  was  necessary  to  teach  him  hu- 
mility, and  improve  his  character.  Perhaps  it  may  be  so 
with  me.  If  I  do  fall,  I  hope  it  may  have  the  same  good 
effect. 

"  I  have  wished  to-day,  as  I  often  do,  that  you  could  have 
an  ear  where  mine  was.  Mr.  Channing  gave  us  a  most 
useful  sermon  this  morning  upon  the  office  of  Christ,  from 
the  words,  '  I  am  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the  life.'  Mr. 
Gannett  this  afternoon  upon  the  retrospect  of  the  past, — 
good  and  solemn.  And  this  eve,  notwithstanding  the  vio- 
lence of  the  snow-storm,  Mr.  Ware's  house  has  been  filled 
to  overflowing,  to  hear  his  usual  address.  It  was  one  of 
the  most  eloquent  and  impressive  I  ever  heard  from  him  ; 
a  powerful  exhortation  on  the  necessity  of  Progress,  deliv- 
ered with  an  energy  which  gave  it  great  effect.  I  have 
heard  but  one  of  those  discourses  before  this,  but  I  should 
think  it  a  most  profitable  service.  The  occasion  is  certain- 
ly one  by  which  all  who  are  capable  of  feeling  seriously 
must  be  solemnly  impressed ;  and  the  great  interest  which 
is  generally  felt  in  Mr.  Ware  gives  him  the  power  of  mak- 
ing a  good  use  of  such  a  predisposition.  And  now  that  it 
is  possible  that  he  may  accept  the  call  to  New  York,  his 
influence  is  greater  than  ever. 

"  I  have  passed  a  quiet,  delightful  week   at   Hingham, 

made  my  long  talked  of  visit  to  Mrs.  P ,  and  returned 

on  Christmas  day  to  be  quiet  at  home  (if  possible)  until  I 


NEW     RELATIONS.  ISl 

go  to  you ;  and  yet  I  ought  to  be  stationary  for  a  time  for 
business'  sake.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much  you  have 
been  in  my  thoughts  during  the  past  week,  so  strongly  are 
all  the  singular  events  which  have  taken  place  in  it  asso- 
ciated with  you.  It  has  not  been  suffered  to  pass  without, 
its  own  special  interest ;  to  me  it  has  indeed  been  full. 

"  Most  heartily  yours,  with  best  wishes  for  the  coming 
year. 

"M.  L.  P." 

The  year  1827  opened  upon  Mary  differently  from 
any  previous  year  of  her  life.  Its  first  month  was  to 
witness  the  consummation  of  a  purpose,  which  could 
not  be  lightly  regarded  by  a  mind  like  hers.  Strange 
that  it  can  be  by  any!  Yet  we  have  such  reason  to 
fear  it,  that  we  deem  it  a  sufficient  apology,  if  any 
be  needed,  for  disclosing  her  own  thoughts  at  this 
time  more  fully  than  might  otherwise  seem  right. 
Sure  we  are  of  her  permission,  whose  conversations 
on  the  forming  of  a  connection  so  often  made  the 
subject  of  trivial  jesting  were  as  free  as  they  were 
serious.  By  nothing  earthly  is  the  social  or  moral 
community  more  deeply  affected  than  by  the  preva- 
lent views  of  Marriage,  and  the  feelings  with  which 
its  momentous  obligations  are  assumed.  And  when 
there  are  revealed  to  us  by  death,  under  that  seal  of 
sacredness  which  deepens  our  conviction  of  their 
sincerity,  such  sentiments  as  those  which  Mary  Pick- 
ard  brought  to  this  relation,  our  view  of  duty,  and 
even  of  delicacy,  moves  us  to  impart  rather  than 
withhold  them.  Not  that  we  suppose  them  pecu- 
liar to  her,  or  that  she  has  given  them  any  remark- 
able expression.  They  may  be  common  to  every 
16 


JS2  NEW     RELATIONS. 

right  and  earnest  mind.  But  various  considerationa 
prevent  their  being  publicly  presented  with  that  per- 
sonal reality  which  adds  so  much  to  their  power. 
Thankful  would  all  be,  and*  none  more  than  those 
perfected  spirits  of  which  we  now  speak,  if  the  young 
and  the  mature  would  take  exalted  and  sober  views 
of  the  holiest  and  happiest  relation  in  life. 

Mary's  views  were  expressed  to  her  two  most  in- 
timate female  friends,  the  same  night;  to  one  in  a 
short  note,  to  the  other  more  at  length. 

"  January  30,  1827.  Dearest  Emma,  I  am  not  willing 
that  any  other  than  my  own  pen  should  communicate  to 
you  the  events  of  this  day.  I  would  not  that  you  should 
think  it  possible  for  me,  under  any  circumstances,  so  far  to 
lose  my  identity  as  to  be  unmindful  of  the  feelings  of  one 
whom  I  so  love  ;  and  though  it  requires  some  effort,  I  will 
do  the  thing  with  my  own  hand.  Know,  then,  dear  E., 
that  a  change  has  passed  over  the  spirit  of  my  earthly 
dreams,  and,  instead  of  the  self-dependent,  self-governed 
being  you  have  known  me,  I  have  learned  to  look  to  an- 
other for  guidance  and  happiness ;  and,  more  than  that, 
nave  bound  myself,  by  an  irrevocable  vow,  to  live  for  the 
future  in  the  exercise  of  the  great  and  responsible  duties 

which  such  a  connection  inevitably  brings  with  it 

You  need  no  explanation,  nor  have  I  time  to  give  any  ;  it 
would  require  one  of  our  long  nights  to  trace  the  rise  and 
progress  of  the  influences  that  have  thus  terminated.  At 
present,  the  idea  of  the  change  I  am  making  is  so  solemn, 
BO  appalling,  that  my  faculties  are  almost  paralyzed. 


"  Boston,  January  30,  1827. 

"  My  dear  N : 

"  I  have  been  sittinc  with  this  sheet  before  me  for  the 


NEW    RELATIONS.  183 

last  half-hour,  trying  to  find  out  in  what  way  to  begin  the 
long  and  eventful  story  which  I  wish  to  convey  to  your 
mind  as  clearly  as  I  see  it  in  my  own.  I  am  in  truth 
hardly  able  to  write  at  all,  from  absolute  exhaustion  of  body 
and  mind,  and  therefore  am  driven  to  the  necessity  of 
beginning  at  the  end  of  the  chapter,  lest  I  should  not  have 
time  to  tell  the  whole.  Will  it  be  an  entire  surprise  to  you 
to  hear  that  this  day  has  been  to  me  the  most  important  of 
my  whole  life,  the  turning-point  of  existence,  the  witness 
of  my  solemn  and  irrevocable  promise  to  unite  for  the  fu- 
ture my  fate  with  that  being,  who,  when  we  last  met,  I 
thought  was  doomed  to  be  a  stranger  to  me  for  ever  ?  It 
seems,  indeed,  like  a  dream,  and  yet  it  is  true,  dreadfully 
true,  that  I  have  taken  upon  myself  great  and  unknown 
duties  for  which  I  feel  incompetent,  —  true  that  I  have 
gained  the  best  blessing  life  can  give. 

"You  need  no  explanation  to  teach  you  the  progress  ot 
this  in  my  own  mind,  for  you  know  me  well  enough  to 
read  it  without  book,  and  you  may  easily  imagine  how  I 
feel  at  such  a  crisis.  O,  it  is  solemn,  it  is  awful,  thus  to 
bind  one's  self  for  life  !  and  yet  I  am  conscious  my  whole 
heart  is  with  the  act,  and  my  happiness  intimately  depend- 
ent upon  it.  This  feeling  of  distrust  and  fearfulness  will 
soon  pass  away.  I  have  not  been  used  to  its  interference 
in  any  case  where  I  have  known  it  was  my  duty  to  act ;  it 
is  only  when  we  seem  to  have  the  direction  of  events  in 
our  own  hands,  that  the  feeling  of  doubt  as  to  what  is  duty 
weakens  our  confidence  in  our  success.  You  will  say, 
feeling  must  be  the  guide  ;  and  so  it  must  so  far  as  this, 
that  we  may  be  sure  that  that  path  is  not  the  right  one  to 
which  it  does  not  impel ;  but  there  is  danger  of  its  tempting 
to  the  wrong  one  notwithstanding,  and  it  cannot  be  safe 
unhesitatingly  to  follow  its  impulses. 

"  Mr.  Ware  goes  to  New  York  on  Thursday,  for  four 


184  NEW     RELATIONS. 

weeks,  to  preach ;  he  will,  I  suppose,  return  by  the  way  of 
Northampton,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  object  to  a  visit  from 
him  on  the  way.  But  I  must  put  an  end  to  this.  I  am  in 
truth  unable  to  write  more. 

"  Yours  most  truly, 

"M.  L.  IV' 

The  relation  thus  viewed  by  a  Christian  woman 
has  often  one  aspect,  as  in  the  present  instance, 
which  is  thought  more  delicate  and  unapproachable 
than  any  other.  Mary  was  to  take  the  place,  not 
only  of  a  wife,  but  of  a  "  step-mother,"  —  a  name 
that  should  be  redeemed  from  the  inconsiderate  and 
unjust  odium  to  which  it  is  commonly  subjected. 
Why  should  that  odium  attach  to  this,  more  than  to 
all  unfaithful  use  of  the  conjugal  relation  ?  Does  not 
this,  the  more  diflScult  office,  exhibit  proportionably  as 
many  noble  wives  and  true  mothers  as  the  other? 
According  to  the  difficulty  and  the  delicacy,  is  the 
greatness  of  the  trust  and  the  merit  of  fidelity.  Let 
honor  be  rendered  where  honor  is  due ;  and  let  no 
vulgar  prejudice  or  unkind  prediction  hide  a  beauty 
and  excellence  of  woman  that  are  less  rare  than  may 
be  supposed. 

In  aid  of  these  thoughts,  as  well  as  in  illustration 
of  the  character  we  are  delineating,  we  are  glad  to 
be  allowed  to  quote  from  two  letters  of  Henry  Ware 
himself;  the  first  bearing  the  same  d^te  as  Mary's 
just  given,  the  other  written  after  a  more  intimate 
acquaintance.  They  are  both  addressed  to  his  sister 
at  Northampton,  to  whom  he  had  confided  the  care 
of  his  children  while  they  were  without  a  mother. 
The  mother  whom  they  had  lost  throe  yours  before 


NEW     RELATIONS.  185 

had  left  a  void  not  easily  filled.  A  woman  of  more 
than  common  qualities  and  powers,  doomed  for 
several  years  to  more  than  ordinary  suffering  from 
an  insidious  and  fatal  disease,  she  had  still  given 
much  time  to  the  parish,  and  discharged  to  the  last 
the  duties  of  a  wife  and  mother,  with  a  fidelity  and 
affection  whose  loss  was  very  grievous,  and  was  felt 
more  and  more  by  Mr.  Ware  from  the  necessity  of 
Reparation  from  his  children,  and  their  own  growing 
years  and  needs.  We  can  understand,  therefore,  the 
feelings  with  which  he  formed  another  connection, 
and  made  it  known  to  one  who  was  now  to  resign 
her  charge  to  other  hands. 

"  Boston,  January  30,  1827 

"  Dear  Sister  :  — 
"  There  is  no  one  who  will  have  more  sincere  and  heariv 
pleasure  in  the  tidings  I  am  going  to  communicate  tlian 
you,  or  from  whom  I  shall  receive  more  sincere  and  affec- 
tionate congratulations.  I  therefore  lose  not  a  moment  in 
telling  you  that  I  am  to  build  up  again  my  family  hearth, 
and  bring  my  children  to  their  father's  side,  and  have  a 
home  once  more.  With  whom,  I  need  not  tell  you.  Provi- 
dence has  thrown  in  my  way  one  woman,  whose  character 
is  all  that  man  can  ask,  of  a  singular  and  exalted  excel- 
lence. You  know  how  admirable  she  is,  and  how  well 
suited  to  fill  the  vacant  place  by  my  side.  She  consents  to 
do  it ;  and  that  I  feel  grateful  and  happy,  a  privileged 
man,  you  will  not  doubt VVrite  me  at  New  York- 
Love  to  you  all.     Affectionately, 

"  Henry  Ware,  Jr." 

"  Saturday  Evening,  March  3,  1 827. 

"My  dear  Harriet:  — 
"You  v^ill  not  be  troubled,  I  hope,  if  1  poar  out  from  my 
16* 


180  NEW    RELATIONS. 

mind  a  little  of  the  satisfaction  which  I  feel,  and  in  which  1 
am  rejoicing  more  and  more  every  day.  Since  my  return 
the  congratulations  of  my  friends  have  been  absolutely 
overpowering ;  and  from  seeing  more  and  more  of  Miss 
Pickard,  I  am  made  to  feel  more  and  more  grateful  for  the 
kind  providence  which  has  led  me  to  this  result.  You 
know  all  my  feelings  and  views,  and  the  process  of  my 
mind,  and  I  shall  therefore  be  understood  by  you  as  by 
nobody  else.  It  is  not  a  common  feeling  which  fills  me ; 
it  is  something  peculiar,  sacred,  as  if  I  had  been  under  a 
supernatural  guidance,  and  been  made  to  act  from  pure 
and  elevated  and  disinterested  motives,  for  the  purpose  of 
accomplishing  some  great  good.  Every  thing  is  connected 
with  the  memory  of  the  past  and  with  my  former  happiness, 
in  such  a  way  as  not  to  sadden  the  present,  but  to  give  to  it 
a  singular  spirituality,  if  I  may  so  say  ;  and  I  feel  that,  if  the 
departed  know  what  is  transacting  here,  my  own  Elizabeth 
would  congratulate  me  as  sincerely  as  any  of  my  friends. 
1  have  sought  for  the  best  mother  to  her  children,  and  the 
ttest  I  have  found.  I  have  desired  a  pattern  and  blessing  for 
my  parish,  and  I  have  found  one.  I  have  wished  some  one  to 
bear  my  load  with  me,  and  to  help,  confirm,  and  strengthen 
my  principle  by  her  own  high  and  experienced  piety,  and 
such  I  have  found.  All  these  things,  meeting  in  one  per- 
son,—  I  might  have  looked  for  each  alone,  but  where  else 
are  they  to  be  all  found  in  such  excellent  proportions  united  ? 
I  surveyed  them  with  cool  judgment,  and  I  shall  by  and  by 
love  them  ardently. 

Dear  Harriet,  I  must  have  somebody  to  pour  out  myself 
to ;  so   bear  the  infliction  charitably.      Good   by.      Yours 

ever  lovingly. 

"  Henry." 

The   character  of   Mary    Pickard   would  not    be 
drawn,  but  one  of  her  noblest  ttaits  be  left  out  of 


NEW    RELATIONS.  187 

view,  if  we  failed  to  speak  frankly  of  the  former 
affection  to  which  Mr.  Ware  refers,  and  the  memory 
of  which  she  herself  cherished,  at  first  and  always. 
She  had  no  sympathy,  and  little  respect,  for  that 
narrow  view  which  insists  that  one  affection  must 
crowd  out  another ;  that  the  departed  and  the  living 
cannot  share  the  same  pure  love  of  the  same  true 
heart.  The  happiness  of  husband  and  wife  and 
household  has  sometimes  been  impaired  by  a  mis- 
taken apprehension  on  this  subject,  and  a  suspicion 
of  feelings  in  each  other  which  had  no  real  existence, 
or  existed  only  from  the  want  of  mutual  and  free 
expression.  We  have  even  known  cruel  attempts 
made  by  others  to  prejudice  the  minds  of  those  most 
concerned,  and  especially  the  children  of  a  former 
mother.  For  such  attempts,  and  all  thoughts  of  the 
kind,  we  cannot  repress  our  indignant  reproof.  No 
false  delicacy  should  prevent  the  utterance  of  truth, 
where  the  best  affections  and  dearest  interests  are 
involved.  Instead  of  avoiding  the  subject,  we  are 
grateful  for  the  opportunity  which  such  characters  as 
Henry  and  Mary  Ware  give  us,  of  presenting  the 
just,  generous,  and  Christian  view.  One  of  her  own 
children  has  said  of  her :  "  Perhaps  no  one  thing  in 
her  character  and  conduct  has  oftener  struck  common 
minds  with  surprise,  and  superior  ones  with  admira- 
tion, than  this  entire  freedom  and  frankness  in  regard 
to  the  first  wife  ?  '  She  was  the  nearest  and  dearest 
to  /iim,'  she  would  say,  '  how,  then,  can  I  do  other- 
wise than  love  her  and  cherish  her  memory  ? '  And 
her  children  she  received  as  a  precious  legacy ;  they 
were  to  her  from  the  first  moment  like  her  own ; 
neither  she  nor  they  knew  any  distinction." 


188  NEW    RELATIONS. 

We  are  permitted  to  add  one  other  letter  of  Henry 
Ware,  beautifully  illustrating  the  character  of  Mary, 
and  showing  his  own  large  and  holy  view  of  this 
particular  relation.  It  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Wil- 
liam Ware,  sister  of  that  first  wife  the  memory  of 
whose  excellence  and  love  he  so  blended  with  the 
new  affection. 

«i»%15,  1827. 

"  My  dear  Mary  :  — 
"  I  believe  that  I  have  said  to  you,  two  or  three  times, 
how  much  I  had  calculated  on  your  long  visit,  as  a  means 

of  makhig  you  and  Miss  Pickard  well  acquainted 

And  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  have  said  even  as  much  as 
this,  were  it  not  for  one  circumstance,  which  has  given  me 
a  satisfaction  that  I  never  had  hoped  to  enjoy,  and  which 
will  be  increased  by  imparting  it  to  you.  I  have  known  so 
much  of  the  selfishness  of  human  love,  and  heard  so  much 
of  the  sensitiveness  with  which  women  are  apt  to  regard  a 
former  affection,  that  I  had  not  dared  to  hope  that  I  ever 
should  be  able  to  speak  as  I  feel  of  former  days,  and  the 
memory  of  my  earliest  love.  Yet,  as  I  longed  to  cherish 
it,  and  as  all  my  present  plans  and  feelings  are  interwoven 
with  the  thoughts  and  images  of  the  past,  it  would  have 
been  an  exceeding  pain  to  me  to  feel  that  there  was  any 
reserve,  or  any  of  that  —  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it  — 
which  would  compel  me  to  hide  such  feeUngs,  and  seem 
not  to  have  them.  I  cannot  tell  you,  then,  how  happy  I 
have  been  in  finding  Miss  Pickard  entii'ely  above  all  mean 
and  selfish  feelings,  which  I  have  supposed  to  be  so  com- 
mon. She  enters  into  my  views,  and  we  have  talked  freely 
of  other  days ;  and  she  helps  to  keep  me  right  by  speaking 
of  the  pleasant  impressions  she  used  to  receive  from  Eliza- 
beth's character,  and  wliat  she  has  heard  of  her.      I  wish  I 


NEW     RELATIONS.  189 

could  go  into  particulars.  So  unexpected  a  communication 
between  us  has  been  a  source  of  gratification  to  me  un- 
speakably great ;  and  I  do  not  know  when  I  have  felt  more 
truly  exalted  and  spiritualized,  than  when,  after  such  a  con- 
versation vvhicli  has  freed  us  from  every  selfish  and  earthly 
feeling,  we  have  knelt  down  together  and  prayed  for  bless- 
ing from  that  world,  where,  I  feel  sure,  if  the  departed  re- 
gard those  whom  they  left  behind,  there  is  no  sorrow  or 
displeasure  at  the  course  I  am  pursuing.  I  take  pleasure 
in  telling  you  this,  because  nothing  can  or  shall  divide  me 
from  you,  or  lessen  that  feeling  in  which  I  have  so  long 
regarded  you  as  one  of  the  nearest,  the  very  nearest,  to  me  ; 
and  I  long  that  all  who  are  near  to  me  should  be  so  to  you. 
Best  love  to  you,  and  all  happiness  with  you  and  yours. 
Till  I  see  you,  adieu. 

"  Yours, 

"  Henry." 

Immediately  after  her  engagement,  Mary  visited 
her  friend  in  Worcester ;  and  from  that  place  we 
find  a  very  long  letter,  relating  more  to  others  than 
to  herself,  Nvritten  in  a  cheerful  mood,  but  showing 
how  deep  and  sober  had  been  her  meditations  on 
the  change  that  was  before  her,  of  which  she  writes 
more  fully  in  the  first  letter  after  her  return  to  Boston. 

"  Worcester,  Feln-narij  18,  1827. 

"  Dear  Emma  :  — 
"  I  have  been  hunting  round  the  room  to  find  a  small 
sheet  of  paper  upon  which  to  do  the  pretty  thing,  and  pay 
a  troublesome  debt.  But  my  search  has  been  in  vain,  so  I 
have  e'en  changed  the  object  of  my  pen,  and  determined 
to  let  it  follow  the  dictates  of  my  inclination,  in  covering  a 
sheet  of  Grandpa  McAdam's  '  Bristol-best '  with  such  lines 


190  NEW     RELATIONS. 

and  scratches  as  it  may  be  impelled  to  make ;  nothing 
doubting  but  its  impulses  will  give  you  some  satisfaction,  ir 
they  go  no  further  than  the  expression  of  the  sincere  sym- 
pathy felt  with  you  by  your  friends  here,  in  your  present 
state  of  joyful  excitement.  I  do  indeed  a j  e  with  you  in 
your  happiness  at  the  return  of  your  brollier  ;  and  you 
may  be  assured  I  am  joined  in  this  by  the  whole  household. 
Although  I  have  never  known  from  experience  what  are 
the  precise  feelings  you  may  have,  I  think  I  can  enter  into 
them  at  all  times.  And  now,  whether  it  is  that  my  mind  is 
more  than  usually  attuned  to  joy,  or  whether  it  is  more  in- 
terested for  you  than  it  ever  has  been  in  similar  cases  with 
respect  to  others,  I  know  not ;  but  sure  I  am,  that  I  never 
felt  so  much  before,  or  seemed  to  myself  so  wholly  awake 
to  the  feelings  and  interests  of  my  friends,  as  at  this  mo- 
ment. You  must  enjoy  a  great  deal  in  the  next  few  months, 
and  I  know  you  will  not  let  so  much  cause  for  gratitude 
pass  without  its  full  effect.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  a 
most  humiliating  fact,  that  so  much  suffering  should  be  ne- 
cessary to  teach  us  our  dependence.  Why  should  we  not 
be  equally  taught  by  the  blessings  which  are  bestowed  upon 
us,  that  we  are  and  have  nothing  but  as  He  wills  it  to  be  ; 
and  does  it  not  seem  a  natural  effect  of  such  testimonies 
of  love,  to  draw  our  hearts  towards  a  Being  who  is  so  good 
to  us  >  Let  us  at  least,  dear  Emma,  prove  that  it  may  have 
this  influence. 

"  Nancy  is  very  well,  and  bright  and  happy  ;  and  could 
1  drive  away  from  her  a  foolish  feeling  of  a  parting  visit 
which  hangs  upon  her  mind,  and  fills  her  eyes  whenever 
she  speaks  to  me,  we  should  be  in  a  very  merry  key.  As 
it  is,  however,  we  enjoy  much,  for  I  have  much  to  tell  her 
of  the  adventures  of  the  last  three  years,  which  takes  her 
away  from  the  present ;  and  she  is  at  heart  so  truly  satis- 
fied and  happy,  that  we  cannot  get  up  any  thing  like  real 
melancholy. 


NEW     RELATIONS.  191 

"  I  wish  indeed,  with  you,  that  I  could  attain  something 
of  your  animation,  and  for  a  longer  period  .han  that  you 
prescribe  ;  for  I  do  not  hold  it  in  such  contempt  as  you  do. 
It  might  not,  perhaps,  add  to  my  individual  happiness,  for 
it  seems  to  me  I  am  as  happy  as  mortal  can  be ;  but  I  do 
feel  sure  it  would  give  me  the  means  of  communicating 
more  pleasure  to  others,  and  this  could  not  fail  to  increase 
my  own.  I  have  always  considered  that  buoyancy  of  spirit 
of  which  you  speak  as  a  great  and  valuable  gift ;  perhaps 
I  have  exaggerated  its  power,  as  we  are  apt  to  do  every 
thing  in  which  we  are  deficient.  But  its  effects  in  chasing 
away  the  vapors  which  will  sometimes  gather,  almost  with- 
out cause,  around  the  feelings  of  even  the  best  and  happiest, 
are  not  to  be  questioned,  and  are  in  my  view  of  great 
worth.  My  happiest  moments  have  always  been  my  quiet- 
est, and  this  does  little  for  others'  comfort.  I  have  in  a 
great  measure  overcome  the  solemnity  which  oppressed  me 
when  I  saw  you  ;  and  were  you  only  here,  I  think  I  could 
join  with  you  in  one  of  your  merry  laughs,  as  gayly  as  you 
could  desire.     I  do  indeed  wish  you  were  here. 

"  You  were  right  in  thinking  that  one  of  my  lettei-s  was 
from  cousin  Jane  ;  the  other  was  from  Aunty,  quite  a  happy 
one,  not  one  complaint,  and  directed  by  the  '  little  Doctor,' 
—  so  I  conclude  he  is  in  the  land  of  the  living.  Jane  writes 
in  good  spirits ;  all  things  there  in  a  better  state  than  usual. 
"  Yours  truly, 

"  M.  L.  P." 

''Boston,  March  20,  1827. 
"  My  dear  N : 

"  Were  I  near  you,  it  would  be  an  unspeakable  relief  to 
pour  forth  to  you,  for  every  moment  is  so  filled  with  con- 
stantly increasing  interest,  that  at  times  I  am  oppressed  and 
overpowered  as  I  do  not  like  to  be  ;  and  there  are  moments 
when  doubt  and  distrust  of  myself  so  entirely  possess  me, 


192  NEW     RELATIONS. 

that  I  feel  almost  tempted  to  doubt  my  right  to  undertake 
what  I  have.  My  mind  is  slow  in  all  its  processes,  you 
know,  and  in  this  matter  it  seems  to  me  more  slow  than  is 
common,  it  may  be  from  the  magnitude  of  the  change  ;  but 
certain  it  is,  I  have  suffered  more,  and  labored  more  to 
bring  myself  into  the  right  state,  than  I  ever  did  in  my  life 
in  the  same  time.  My  cause  for  happiness  is  increasing 
every  day,  and  this  tempts  me  to  dwell  too  exclusively 
upon  concerns  connected  with  self.  I  am  seeing  daily 
more  and  more  of  the  immense  responsibility  under  which 
I  am  placing  myself,  and  feeling  more  and  more  my  own 
incapacity,  and  this  tempts  me  to  be  anxious  and  doubtful. 
I  am  understanding  more  of  what  might  be  done  in  the 
station  I  am  to  fill,  and  this  makes  me  ambitious  to  satisfy- 
all  who  will  look  to  me  with  hope.  O,  if  I  could  feel  as  I 
should,  that  if  I  do  my  utmost  with  my  whole  heart,  from 
the  right  motive,  I  shall  gain  that  approbation  which  should 
be  the  first  object  of  my  desire,  be  my  efforts  successful  or 
not !  But  I  am  getting  to  depend  too  much  upon  the  appro- 
bation of  those  I  love. 

"  In  one  respect,  this  new  and  strong  and  satisfying  in 
terest  is  not  having  the  influence  I  feared ;  instead  of  en- 
grossing, absorbing,  and  making  me  selfish,  excluding  all 
other  interests,  it  seems  to  enlarge  the  capacity  of  affection. 
I  feel  warmed  more  than  ever  towards  every  living  being 
whom  I  ever  loved.  And  it  has  done  much  towards  exalt- 
ing and  enlightening  my  mind  upon  the  point  which  has 
been  a  greater  trial  to  me  than  any  thing  I  ever  met  with. 
I  mean,  it  has  made  me  more  willing  to  leave  the  world, 
and  enjoy  the  happiness  of  heaven,  than  I  ever  thought  I 
should  be.  Strange  that  the  thing  from  which,  of  all 
others,  I  should  have  expected  the  very  opposite  effect, 
should  have  done  (his  ! 

"  I  have  been  through  all  the  forms  and  ceremonies  of 


VEW    RELATIONS.  193 

'introduction,'  very  quietly.  I  have  been  to  Cambridge, 
and  the  family  have  been  here  ;  and,  better  than  that,  I 
have  laid  siege  to  the  venerable  Doctor  in  his  study,  and 
had  a  most  delightful  conversation  of  nearly  two  hours  in 
length ;  which  made  me  feel  that  I  was  not  a  little  privi- 
leged, to  have  any  claim,  however  small,  upon  his  interest. 

I  wish  you  could   have   heard   Mr.  Channing   this 

morning  on  the  '  Glory  of  Jesus  Christ ' ;  it  was  one  of  his 
highest  flights.     We  have  great  nroaching  now-a-days  from 

many  quarters, 

"  Yours  eter  the  same, 

"  Mary." 

The  marriage  of  the  Rev.  Henry  "Ware,  Jr.  and 
Mary  L.  Pickard  took  place  at  the  house  of  Miss 
Bent  in  Boston,  on  the  11th  of  June,  1827,  Dr. 
Gannett  uniting  and  blessing  them.  They  were 
absent  a  fortnight,  journeying  to  New  York  and 
Northampton  ;  and  then  returned  to  Boston  with  the 
two  children,  and  entered  upon  their  new  home  in 
Sheafe  Street,  at  the  North  End.  And  there  began 
a  new  life,  —  to  Mary  wholly  new,  and  intensely 
busy.  She  gave  herself  up  to  all  its  duties,  at  once 
and  unreservedly.  Of  her  standard  of  duty  we 
know  something  already ;  and  they  who  also  know 
the  demands  of  a  large  parish  upon  a  minister's 
wife,  who  resolves  not  only  to  make  her  house  free 
and  pleasant  to  all  who  will  enter  it,  but  also  to 
share  all  of  her  husband's  labors  for  which  she  is  com- 
petent, can  form  an  idea  of  what  Mary  found  to  do. 
"  Mrs.  Ware,  at  home  and  abroad,  was  the  busiest 
woman  of  my  acquaintance,"  is  the  reason  given  by 
one  of  her  female  friends  for  not  seeking  her  society 
17 


194  NEW    RELATIONS. 

as  much  as  she  desired.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
she  began  with  a  family,  as  well  as  parish,  and  that 
the  duty  of  a  "  mother  "  was  one  which  she  held  very 
sacred,  and  would  never  slight  for  any  other.  But  we 
will  let  her  tell  the  story  of  her  first  labors,  as  she  does 
in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Hall,  at  Northampton,  who  had  had 
the  care  of  the  children,  and  another  to  Mrs.  Paine. 
We  ought  to  say  of  these,  and  all  the  letters  to  be 
offered,  that  they  are  not  given  as  recording  great 
events  or  rare  qualifies,  but  simply  for  what  they 
are,  —  expressions  of  the  daily  thought  and  domestic 
life  of  a  conscientious  woman,  in  common  relations 
and  quiet  duty. 

"  Boston,  July  20,  1827. 
"  Dear  Harriet  :  — 

"  You  will  be  glad,  I  know,  to  hear  from  my  own  pen 
how  we  all  prosper,  and  I  sincerely  wish  I  had  lime  enough 
to  tell  you  all  I  wish  you  to  know  of  my  various  arrange- 
ments and  avocations,  hopes  and  fears,  wishes  and  success- 
es. Of  the  latter  I  cannot  boast  much ;  I  am,  however, 
much  delighted  to  find  that  many  things  which  I  expected 
would  perplex  me,  and  take  more  time  and  thought  than  I 
should  be  willing  to  give  them,  do  not  trouble  me  in  the  least 
degree,  —  such  as  household  affairs,  eating,  drinking,  and 
keeping  matters  moving  methodically.  I  did  not,  to  be  sure, 
indulge  anxiety  about  it,  as  from  my  utter  ignorance  I  had 
some  reason  to  do  ;  but  I  did  not  suppose  it  possible  that  such 
a  young  novice  could  be  inducted  into  the  important  station 
of  housekeeper  without  suffering  for  a  time  a  degree  of 
martyrdom.  But  thus  far  I  get  on  easily,  and  hope  to 
learn  by  experience  sufficient  to  meet  future  wants.  My 
parish  matters  have  gone  on  so  far  just  as  I  wished.  I 
gave  up  all  last  week  to  receiving  visitors,  and  they  came 


NEW    RELATIONS.  195 

in  just  the  manner  I  wished,  morning,  noon,  or  evening, 
as  might  be  most  convenient  to  themselves.  It  was  the 
best  way  for  me,  for  it  gave  me  a  better  (Opportunity  of 
getting  acquainted  with  their  looks,  and  they  seemed  to  like 
it  very  much  themselves.  I  am  at  liberty  now,  but  prefer 
staying  at  home,  and  still  have  enough  to  do  to  say  '  Wel- 
come '  to  my  friends. 

"  But  this  is  all  play-work  in  comparison  with  the  other 
duties  that  belong  to  my  lot.  They  are  just  what  I  knew 
they  would  be,  —  most  delicate,  most  difficult,  for  one  so 
utterly  ignorant ;  but  I  see  the  difficulties,  and  do  not  find 
them  greater  than  I  have  always  known  they  would  be  ;  am 
neither  discouraged  nor  faint-hearted,  but  hope  and  trust 
that  power  will  yet  be  granted  for  all  exigencies.  I  do  not 
find  myself  as  much  discomposed  by  the  task  as  I  expected, 
considering  I  have  had  so  little  to  do  with  children.  But 
I  do  feel  the  importance  of  the  relation  in  which  I  stand 
to  them  more  deeply,  more  oppressively,  than  I  could 
have  conceived,  and  I  am  more  than  ever  certain  that  I 
have  a  great  deal  to  learn,  and  a  long  work  before  me. 
Do  let  me  hear  from  you  sometimes ;  we  may  not  have 
much  communication  at  present,  but,  as  the  Quaker  said, 
'  we  can  meditate  on  each  other.'  I  beg  you  to  understand 
that  I  consider  myself  one  whose  lot  has  more  than  a  com- 
mon share  of  blessing,  and  daily  and  hourly  do  I  thank 
God  for  guiding  me  to  this  pleasant  path.  I  find  1  shall 
realize  all  you  promised  me  of  comfort,  and  much  more  too. 
"  Yours  in  sincerity. 

"  M.  L.  W." 

"  Boston,  July  22,  1827. 

"  Dear  Nancy  :  — 
'•  Your  letter  was  given  me  this  morning  in  meeting,  and 
has  just  been  read  in  one  of  the  few  quiet  moments  which 


196  NEW    RELATIONS. 

fall  to  my  lot,  and  one  of  the  most  peaceful  and  refreshing; 
and  I  am  rejoiced  to  add  to  its  pleasure,  by  turning  to  my 
little  table  ami  writing  to  you.  I  have  indeed  longed  to 
give  you  a  peep  into  my  almost  too  delightful  home;  but  it 
has  been  entirely  beyond  possibility  to  find  an  opportunity 
to  write.  How  much  I  wish  you  could  look  in  upon  us,  and 
see  the  whole  detail  of  affairs  from  Monday  morning  to 
Saturday  night,  and  that  still  more  delightful  season,  the 
holy  Sabbath,  I  need  not  tell  you.  But  I  fear  you  will 
never  fully  understand  it,  unless  you  can  make  yourself  in- 
visible and  come  among  us 

"  We  came  on  in  the  same  stage,  next  day,  and  found  all 
in  readiness,  perfect  readiness,  for  us ;  and  made  so,  too,  by 
the  efforts  of  our  friends,  which  added  not  a  little  to  the 

comfort.    The  ladies  of  the  parish  would  not  let  Miss  B 

hire  workwomen,  but  came  and  did  things  with  their  own 
hands.  All  looked  more  comfortable  and  neat  and  appro- 
priate than  I  expected,  as  I  had  picked  matters  up  with  no 

small  degree  of  carelessness.     Miss  B and  Mrs.  B 

were  on  the  spot  to  receive  us ;  and  oh  !  Nancy,  to  enter 
one's  own  home,  in  which  was  to  be  known  all  of  experience 
which  might  be  hid  in  the  future,  —  to  come  to  it,  too,  as  I 
did,  after  so  long  floating  on  a  changeful  sea,  —  and  to  come 
to  it  under  all  the  interesting  circumstances  of  grateful  joy 
and  fearful  responsibilities,  —  it  was  a  moment  not  to  be 
described  or  forgotten. 

"  H told  you  of  our  Sunday.    The  transfer  to  a  new 

place  of  worship  was  trying  and  affecting ;  but  I  forgot  the 
people,  and  did  not  suffer  because  every  eye  in  the  house 
might  be  directed  towards  me.  I  need  not  add,  that  the 
excitement  in  church  is  much  more  than  it  ever  was  to  me, 
though  not  what  it  will  be  when  I  am  more  at  home  there. 
Sunday  gave  me  truly  the  rest  of  the  soul.  I  arranged  that 
it  should  be  a  quiet  day.    VVe  prepared  dinner  on  Saturday, 


NEW    RELATIONS.  197 

and  locked  up  the  house  ;  Mr.  Ware  in  his  study  after  break- 
fast, and  the  children  with  me,  reading  and  studying.  They 
were  easily  interested,  and,  the  excitement  of  common  days 
being  removed,  they  were  more  as  I  wished,  and  gave  me 
much  pleasure.  So  it  was  at  noon ;  and  at  night  they  go  to 
their  father,  and  I  have  my  own  hour  of  peaceful  thought. 
And  then  in  the  eveninst  we  are  all  together,  talking  or 
reading  or  singing.  It  is  realizing  so  exactly  what  I  have 
always  wished  to  have  the  day,  and  what  1  never  before 
knew,  that  I  enjoy  it  doubly.  A  friend,  perhaps,  drops  in 
and  joins  our  singing. 

" All  classes  have  come  to  see  me,  even  the  poor- 
est, and  seem  quite  disposed  to  be  pleased.  I  have  said 
distinctly  that  I  wish  ours  to  be  entirely  a  social  intercourse, 
and  they  take  me  at  my  word.  I  have  not  told  you  of  my 
own  private  joys,  nor  can  I  in  this  little  space.  That  they  are 
great,  immensely  great,  you  can  believe  ;  and  even  with 

the .     August  16.    Here  I  was  interrupted  more  than 

a  fortnight  ago,  and  do  not  now  remember  what  was  to 
have  been  the  close  of  the  sentence.  I  might  add,  that  I 
feel  it  happy  for  me,  that,  with  all  these  blessings  and  pleas- 
ant circumstances,  I  have  so  much  of  responsibility  and 
anxiety  as  will  effectually  prevent  my  head  being  turned  by 
it.     But  I  have  not  room  for  further  detail.     Yours  ever. 

"  Mary." 

The  sense  of  "responsibility"  just  referred  to 
might  be  called  one  of  Mary's  characteristics.  And 
it  had  this  peculiarity,  if  no  other,  that  she  felt  it  to 
be  a  blessing  rather  than  a  burden.  Indeed,  in  cases 
where  others  would  speak,  as  almost  all  do  speak,  of 
"  the  burden  of  responsibility,"  she  used  the  other 
and  brighter  word.  As,  at  this  time,  she  said,  in  a 
note  to  a  friend,  —  "  My  fate  is  a  singular  one  in  this 
17* 


198  NEW    RELATIONS. 

respect,  —  that,  whatever  may  be  the  variety  of  the 
scene,  it  is  always  filled  with  the  extremes  of  bless- 
ing and  responsibility ;  and  I  know  not  that  I  ever 
felt  more  fully  the  blessing  of  responsibility  than 
now.  Had  I  not  great  and  almost  overpowering 
duties  and  cares,  my  head  would  almost  of  necessity 
be  dizzy  with  the  bright  prospect  before  me.  As  it 
is,  I  rejoice  with  a  serious,  but  most  grateful  spirit, 
—  a  sober  bliss  certainly,  but  not  the  less  valuable." 
There  was  one  utterance  of  her  "  sober  bliss "  of 
which  we  have  not  spoken  as  we  might,  for  it  was 
habitual  with  her  through  life.  We  refer  to  her  love 
of  singing,  and  her  use  of  sacred  hymns  in  the  fami- 
ly, which  began,  as  we  have  seen,  with  the  first  Sab- 
bath in  her  new  home,  and,  as  we  are  to  see,  ended 
only  with  life.  One  who  lived  with  her  just  before 
her  marriage  tells  us  how  much  she  indulged  and 
enjoyed  in  this  devotional,  but  cheerful  melody,  for 
"it  seemed  in  her  to  be  truly  singing  hymns  of 
praise.''^  She  would  sing  after  withdrawing  for  the 
night,  at  the  close  of  the  busiest  and  most  distracting 
days ;  and  sometimes,  "  after  having  actually  retired, 
she  would  think  of  a  charming  tune,  always  selecting 

the  most  beautiful  words,  and  joined  by  Miss  K , 

they  would  enjoy  an  hour  in  this  way."  Distinct 
are  the  echoes  which  linger  in  many  hearts  still,  from 
her  soft  and  expressive  voice,  —  the  voice  of  the  soul ! 
The  biographer  of  Henry  Ware  says  that  the  year 
of  which  we  are  speaking,  that  which  followed  this  sec- 
ond marriage,  "  was  one  of  tlie  most  active,  and  also, 
to  all  human  appearance,  one  of  the  most  successful, 
of  his  ministry."     It  was  marked  by  the  efficiency  of 


NEW    RELATIONS.  199 

his  labors,  increased  attention  to  his  preaching,  a 
growing  congregation,  and  many  proofs  of  favor 
with  the  community  in  general.  He  repeated,  that 
winter,  and  enlarged,  his  Lectures  on  the  Geography 
of  Palestine;  and,  beside  his  Bible  class  and  vestry 
service,  his  house  was  open  to  his  parish  every  Tues- 
day evening  for  social  intercourse  and  religious  con- 
versation. In  this  last,  as  in  other  parochial  ways, 
Mrs.  Ware  was  an  efficient  helper.  Nothing  could 
be  more  to  her  taste,  or  in  unison  with  her  best 
powers,  nothing  certainly  could  contribute  more  to 
her  deepest  joys,  than  this  whole  manner  of  life.  If 
we  may  not  believe  that  she  was  reserved  for  this 
very  position,  we  may  confidently  say  that  she  could 
have  filled  no  other  with  more  ease,  more  energy,  or 
happier  results.  We  attempt  no  enumeration  of  the 
relations  and  offices  in  which  she  endeavored  to  serve 
her  husband's  society,  or  the  larger  community. 
Boston  is  not  more  remarkable  for  its  noble  chari- 
ties, than  for  the  noble  women  who  find  sphere  and 
activity  enough  in  devising  or  directing  so  many 
of  those  charities.  Mrs.  Ware  sought  no  publicity 
or  distinction  in  these  movements,  and  was  less 
prominent,  perhaps  less  efficient,  than  many  others. 
Comparisons  she  seldom  attempted,  and  never  made 
them  a  rule  of  conduct.  Her  rule  seems  to  have 
been,  to  refuse  no  service  asked  of  her  for  which  she 
was  competent,  if  it  interfered  not  with  any  duty  to 
her  family  or  parish.  From  the  opportunities  she 
had  enjoyed  and  improved,  when  abroad,  of  visiting 
various  charitable  institutions,  she  was  frequently 
consulted  in  regard  to  them,  and  she  sent  to  Eng- 


200  NEW    RELATIONS. 

land  for  plans  and  hints.  She  was  a  directress  of  a 
Charity  Sewing  School ;  and  always  regretted  that 
sewing  was  not  taught  in  the  public  schools,  and 
made  essential  to  a  complete  education  with  every 
class.  In  all  her  views  and  efforts  there  was  that 
practical  good  sense,  which  is  better  than  the  best 
theories  or  brightest  abstractions.  Yet  she  did  not 
despise  theory  and  abstraction,  nor  suppose  that  ei- 
ther she  or  her  own  generation  had  learned  all  there 
was  to  be  learned.  Indeed,  we  use  no  great  bold- 
ness in  saying,  that,  without  the  slightest  tendency 
to  reckless  innovation  or  foolish  experiment,  there 
never  was  man  or  woman  more  interested  in  reform, 
or  anxious  for  progress,  or  fearless  for  truth,  than 
Henry  and  Mary  Ware. 

Of  Mary's  ideas  of  the  reioard  which  the  benev- 
olent and  the  good  should  desire,  an  amusing  illus- 
tration has  been  given  us  by  one  who  heard  the 
remark  at  the  time.  A  motion  being  made  in  a 
charitable  Society  for  a  "  vote  of  thanks  for  the  min- 
ister's prayer,"  Mrs.  Ware  said  to  a  lady  near  her, 
"  While  I  was  secretary  of  the  Society  for  the  Em- 
ployment of  Female  Poor,  I  never  recorded  votes  of 
thanks.  I  thought  members  should  do  all  lliey  could, 
and  when  that  was  done,  they  might  make  their 
courtesy  to  each  other  I  " 

In  March,  1828,  Mrs.  Ware,  after  the  labors  and 
anxieties  of  the  first  winter,  made  a  visit  to  Mrs 
Hall  in  Northampton,  where  she  wrote  her  first  letter 
to  her  husband,  containing  expressions  whose  full 
import  we  cannot  know,  but  whose  intimations  oi 
self-di.;trust  and  increasing  sense  of  responsibility 
many  will  understand. 


NEW    RELATIONS.  201 

"  Nortluimpton,  March  19,  1828. 
'•'  Dear  Henry  :  — 

"  No  letter  from  you  yesterday ;  but  I  did  not  expect 
0.10,  knowing  that  Saturday  and  Sunday  are  busy  days.  I 
feel  sure  of  one  to-day,  however,  and  while  waiting  its 
arrival  with  all  the  patience  I  can  summon,  I  cannot  please 
myself  better  than  by  talking  a  little  to  you ;  and  if  I  am 
willing  to  believe  that  in  this,  as  in  many  other  matters,  our 
tastes  may  correspond,  pity  my  delusion,  but  do  not  destroy 
it,  —  it  is  the  brightest  dream  of  life  to  me. 

"  I  find  it  is  a  very  different  thing  to  be  lone  Polly  Pick- 
ard,  beating  about  the  world,  conscious  that  it  could  not 
interfere  with  any  one's  comfort  or  convenience  if  she 
were  out  of  it,  and  to  call  myself  Mary  Ware,  with  all  the 
appendages  which  belong  to  her,  —  the  cares  and  comforts, 
the  duties  and  privileges,  from  which  she  cannot  disconnect 
herself.  It  is  almost  incredible  to  me  that  a  short  year 
should  have  made  one  who  was  before  utterly  reckless 
of  danger  so  careful  and  cautious,  —  I  had  almost  said, 
anxious.  And,  oh !  what  a  lesson  it  has  taught  me !  I 
thought  I  was  deeply  sensible  of  my  danger ;  I  thought  I 
realized  fully  the  strength  of  the  temptation  which  assailed 
me  to  rest  satisfied  with  my  earthly  blessings,  and  to  de- 
pend upon  them  entirely  for  my  happiness.  But  this  little 
separation  has  shown  me  the  state  of  my  mind  in  a  truer 
light  than  I  ever  saw  it  before,  and  compelled  me  to  confess, 
with  deep  sorrow,  that  my  trial  was  greater  than  I  could 
bear.  J  had  borne  sorrow  and  deprivation,  loneliness  and 
calumny,  unmoved,  erect,  fearless,  —  but  had  sunk  before 
the  greater  trial  of  satisfied  affection.  May  this  knowledge 
do  me  real  good !  And  if  it  should  please  our  kind  Father 
to  restore  us  to  each  other,  let  us  strive  with  greater  zeal  to 
conquer  this  enemy.  While  we  rejoice,  as  we  must,  in  the 
blessings  of  His  providence  in  calling  us  together,  may  wo 


202  NEW    RELATIONS. 

use  our  comforts  without  so  abusing  them  as  shall  make 
them  instruments  of  evil  instead  of  good  to  our  souls. 

"  Do  not  think  I  am  nervous  or  inclined  to  croak.  I  am 
perfectly  well,  and  while  I  look  at  these  things  seriously,  I 
feel  a  cheerful  courage  to  contend  manfully,  nothing  doubt- 
ing that  strength  will  be  given  in  aid  of  all  right  effort,  and 
that  all  these  trials,  if  rightly  used,  will  be  so  many  addi- 
tional aids  in  attaining  that  heavenly-mindedness  which 
alone  can  satisfy. 

"  All  blessings  attend  you,  dearest  Henry.  All  send 
love.     Your  own 

"  Mary." 

Expressions  of  self-distrust  and  extreme  discour- 
agement seem  strangely  unintelligible  to  many  minds, 
when  they  come  from  those  who  are  thought  better 
than  others,  and  are  always  striving  and  advancing. 
Yet  these  are  the  very  persons  to  feel  discouraged, 
because  of  the  high  mark  they  set  for  themselves. 
And  the  fact  that  they  are  thought  better  than 
others,  with  their  keen  insight  of  their  own  failings, 
is  more  apt  to  mortify  and  depress  than  to  exalt  the 
humble  and  earnest  spirit.  Never,  perhaps,  was 
Henry  Ware  doing  more  for  others  or  himself  than 
in  the  winter  and  spring  of  the  year  we  are  review- 
ing. Yet  in  a  letter  to  his  wife,  written  a  few  weeks 
after  that  which  we  just  gave  from  her,  we  find  the 
expression  of  a  dissatisfaction  with  himself,  even 
greater  than  hers.  It  was  written  on  his  birthday, 
and  shows  also  his  sense  of  the  great  blessing  which 
the  last  year  had  brought  him.  "  I  never  yet  was 
satisfied  with  my  mode  of  life  for  one  year,  —  per- 
haps I  may  except  one.     But  since  that  I  have  been 


NEW    RELATIONS.  203 

growing  worse  and  worse.  I  did  think  soberly,  that, 
when  I  was  settled  down  with  you,  I  should  turn 
over  a  new  leaf;  and  I  began ;  but,  by  foolish  de- 
grees, I  have  got  back  to  all  my  accustomed  care- 
lessness and  waste  of  powers,  and  am  doing  noth- 
ing in  proportion  to  what  I  ought  to  do.  Yet  other 
people  tell  me  I  do  a  great  deal,  and  I  am  stupid 
enough  to  take  their  judgment  instead  of  my  own. 
These,  dear  Mary,  are  the  morning  reflec- 
tions with  which  I  open  my  thirty-fifth  year.  Will 
the  year  be  any  better  for  them  ?  I  hope  so,  but  I 
fear  not ;  for  I  do  not  feel  the  weight  and  solemnity 
of  these  considerations  as  they* ought  to  be  felt." 

Different,  indeed,  from  the  anticipations  of  either 
did  the  opening  year  prove.  The  season  which  had 
been  the  first  of  Mary's  cooperation  with  Mr.  Ware, 
was  the  last  of  his  active  service  as  a  pastor.  He 
had  overtasked  his  energies,  and  that  change  was 
impending  which  affected  the  whole  of  their  remain- 
ing work  in  life.  On  his  return  from  Northampton, 
where  he  had  been  preaching,  in  the  month  of  May, 
1828,  he  was  arrested  at  Ware  by  a  violent  fever, 
which  was  followed  by  extreme  prostration,  and 
confined  him  there  several  weeks.  His  wife  was  in 
Boston,  and  in  a  state  of  health  that  made  travelling 
neither  easy  nor  wholly  safe.  Bat  she  wrote  so  per- 
suasively to  the  physician  for  leave  to  join  her  hus- 
band, that  it  could  not  be  refused,  and  she  was  soon 
at  his  side.  Under  date  of  June  16th,  she  writes 
from  Ware :  "  How  grateful  and  happy  I  am,  to  be 
here  I  All  the  few  feelings  of  doubt  about  the  ex- 
pediency of  the   jaunt,   which    others'    fears    forced 


204  NEW    RELATIONS. 

upon  my  notice,  have  vanished,  and  my  own  strong 
convictions  that  it  was  best  have  become  perfect 
certainty.  With  the  unspeakable  satisfaction  of 
being  with  my  husband,  so  unexpected  to  him,  and 
scarcely  hoped  for  by  me,  what  can  there  be  to  dread 
which  can  be  a  balance  for  such  blessings  ?  " 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Ware  was  well  enough,  they  went 
on  to  Worcester,  where  they  remained  six  weeks. 
And  there,  on  the  13th  of  July,  Mrs.  Ware's  first 
child  was  born;  a  son,  who  lived  but  few  years,  yet 
long  enough  to  leave  a  deep  impression  of  beauty 
and  promise.  Toward  the  last  of  August,  Mr.  Ware 
set  out  alone  on  a  horseback  journey  for  his  health, 
riding  through  New  Hampshire  and  Vermont  to 
Montreal  and  Quebec,  and  returning  in  October. 
During  the  first  part  of  this  interval,  his  wife  and 
infant  child  were  at  lodgings  in  Newton,  where 
her  next  letter  is  dated,  referring  in  the  opening  to 
a  poetical  epistle  which  she  had  received  from  her 
husband.  That  epistle,  as  published  at  length  in 
the  Memoir  of  Mr.  Ware,*  many  will  remember ; 
but  its  tenderness,  and  its  allusions  to  their  common 
experience  at  this  period,  will  furnish  an  excuse,  if 
we  insert  a  part  of  it,  as  a  preface  to  the  letter 
which  follows. 

"  Dear  Mary,  't  is  the  fourteenth  day 
Since  I  was  parted  from  your  side ; 

And  still  upon  my  lengthening  way 
In  solitude  I  ride  ; 

But  not  a  word  has  come  to  tell 

If  those  I  left  at  home  are  well. 

•  Mamoir  of  Henry  Ware,  p.  220. 


NEW    RELATIONSi  205 

"  I  am  not  of  an  anxious  mind, 

Nor  prone  to  cherish  useless  fear ; 

Yet  oft  methinks  the  very  wind 
Is  whispering  in  my  ear, 

That  many  an  evil  may  take  place 

Within  a  fortnight's  narrow  space. 

"  But  no,  —  a  happier  thought  is  mine  ; 

The  absent,  like  the  present  scene, 
Is  guided  by  a  Friend  Divine, 

Who  bids  us  wait,  serene. 
The  issues  of  that  gracious  will. 
Which  mingles  good  with  every  ill. 

"  And  who  should  feel  this  tranquil  trust 

In  that  Benignant  One  above  — 
Who  ne'er  forgets  that  we  are  dust, 

And  rules  with  pitying  love  — 
Like  us,  who  both  have  just  been  led 
Back  fi-om  the  confines  of  the  dead  1 

"Then,  dearest,  present  or  apart. 

An  equal  calmness  let  us  wear ; 
Let  steadfast  Faith  control  the  heart, 

And  still  its  throbs  of  care. 
We  may  not  lean  on  things  of  dust,  — 
But  Heaven  is  worthy  all  our  trust." 

"Mwton,  September  13,  1828. 
"  Thank  you,  dearest,  for  the  pleasure  your  good  long 
letters  have  given  me ;  and  if  1  am  the  more  pleased  that 
you  called  your  Muse  to  aid  you  in  my  behalf,  I  hope  it  is 
one  of  the  pardonable  weaknesses  of  womankind,  and  trust 
your  vanity  will  not  take  the  alarm  lest  I  should  undervalue 
your  own  unassisted  powers  of  pleasing.  It  is  indeed  a 
great  and  unceasing  source  of  delight  to  me,  that,  although 
separated  externally  in  our  way,  our  thoughts,  our  spirits, 
are  pursuing  the  same  course,  and  we  may  meet  in  medi« 
18 


20f5 


NEW    RELATIONS. 


tation  and  prayer,  sure  that  the  same  feelings  of  gratitude 
and  trust  are  ever  present  to  us  both.  I  thought  much  of 
this,  last  Sunday,  when  I  made  my  first  attempt  to  attend 
public  worship.  I  had  felt  a  great  desire  to  go  to  meeting 
upon  that  day,  being  the  eighth  week  from  the  birth  of  my 
child ;  and,  moreover,  because  the  first  Sunday  in  Septem- 
ber has  been  a  memorable  day  to  me  every  year  sinco 
1813.  I  did  not  attempt  it  in  the  morning,  but  in  the  after- 
noon rode  over  to  hear  Mr.  Wallcut  at  the  Upper  Falls.  I 
had  felt  well  and  strong  at  home,  but  it  was  quite  too  much 
for  me ;  my  mind  was  too  weak  to  bear  it  quietly.  The 
reflection  upon  all  that  had  passed  since  I  last  entered  the 
house  of  God,  which  was  forced  upon  me  at  one  view,  was 
indeed  overwhelming.  I  could  scarcely  control  myself 
sufficiently  to  join  in  the  services.  I  longed  to  put  every 
one  out  of  the  house,  that  I  might  prostrate  myself  bodily, 
and  I  did  mentally,  before  that  Being  whose  goodness  had 
brought  me  to  that  hour.  I  did  indeed  think  much  of  you; 
and  there  was  a  high  and  holy  satisfaction  in  the  idea  that 
you  were  at  the  same  time  employed  in  the  same  way  ; 
and  although  all  was  uncertainty  with  regard  to  you,  1 
doubted  not,  that,  whether  on  earth  or  in  heaven,  I  might 
safely  rely  upon  this.  How  did  I  rejoice  in  that  faith 
which  could  remove  from  me  all  anxiety  and  fear  concern- 
ing you,  which  could  enable  me  so  calmly  to  suffer  you  to 
go  from  me  for  such  a  length  of  time,  notwithstanding  the 
very  many  uncertainties  which  must  belong  to  your  situa- 
tion. I  sometimes  wonder  at  the  peace  which  pervades 
my  mind,  but  I  know  I  have  a  right  to  feel  it ;  it  has  its 
basis  upon  an  immovable  foundation.  Mr.  Wallcut  gave 
us  a  very  useful,  solemn  discourse,  and  I  was  strengthened 
by  the  service,  and  not  injured  by  the  excitement. 
"  Heaven  bless  you  !     Your  own 

"  Mary." 


NEW    RELATIONS.  207 

In  September,  Mrs.  Ware  returned  to  their  own 
nouse  in  Boston, —  that  house  in  which  she  had 
been  so  happy,  and  to  which  she  hoped  soon  to  wel- 
come her  husband  back  again,  in  restored  health. 
She  writes  at  once. 

"  Sheafe  Street,  September  26,  1828. 
"  Here  we  are,  dear  Henry,  as  comfortable  as  you  could 
wish,  in  our  own  dear  house,  more  grateful  and  happy 
than  I  could  easily  describe,  every  thing  looking  just  as  if 
we  had  not  been  away.  Never  did  the  place  look  more 
comfortable,  —  I  had  almost  said,  beautiful;  —  I  will  say 
so,  for  there  were  so  many  delightful  associations  with  it 
that  it  possessed  a  moral  beauty,  it  I  may  say  so,  exceeding 
any  other  it  could  have  had.  I  feel  finely,  and  am  sure 
I  am  as  able  to  do  all  that  is  necessary  as  I  ever  was.  It  is 
not  necessary  just  now  that  I  should  make  any  violent 
efforts ;  there  is  no  call  for  it.  Elizabeth  is  with  me,  as 
happy  as  a  child  can  be  ;  and  the  '  young  rogue  '  likes  his 
home  so  well  that  he  has  turned  over  a  new  leaf  at  once, 
and  I  believe  means  to  behave  well.  All  we  want  now  is 
your  presence,  and  that  I  trust  we  shall  have  in  the  right 
time.  O,  how  willing  does  all  this  experience  make  one  to 
leave  all  things  in  His  hands,  who  has  brought  us  through 
such  troubled  waters  so  safely,  so  joyfully  !  I  have  gained 
since  Sunday  ;  at  least,  I  have  none  of  the  confused  feeling 
I  then  had,  which  made  me  fear  my  head  was  too  light  for 
Boston.  It  is  getting  home^  I  believe  ;  home  and  its  peace- 
fulness  are  the  best  restoratives.  I  trust  you  will  find  it  so. 
I  shall  walk  a  little  every  day,  and  call  first  on  those  in 
affliction  and  the  sick  ;  there  are  but  kw,  astonishingly  ievf^ 
for  the  time  ;  none  that  you  have  not  heard  of,  I  believe. 
Peace  be  with  you,  dearest !     Your 

"  Maey." 


NEW    RELATIONS. 

Mr.  "Ware  did  return  to  Sheafe  Street  in  October, 
but  not  to  remain.  His  health  was  not  restored  ;  he 
could  not  resume  his  pastoral  duties,  and  he  was  not 
willing  to  remain  in  Boston  and  among  his  people 
unemployed.  A  friend's  house  in  Brookline  was  kind- 
ly offered  them,  and  early  in  November  they  took 
leave  —  as  it  proved,  a  final  leave  —  of  their  parish, 
and  of  that  house  where  they  had  passed  but  a  single 
year,  yet  one  of  the  happiest  of  their  lives.  In  the 
mind  and  memory  of  both  of  them,  that  abode  seems 
to  have  been  invested  with  peculiar  interest.  They 
have  been  heard  to  speak  of  the  "  Eden  of  Sheafe 
Street."  Their  children  always  revert  to  it  with  a 
tender  fondness ;  and,  beside  theirs,  there  are  many 
eyes  that  fill  with  tears  even  now,  as  they  look  back 
upon  the  happy  hours  and  blessed  influences  enjoyed 
there,  in  their  pastor's  home.  And  she  who  helped 
to  make  that  home  what  it  was  to  pastor  and  peo- 
ple, loved  to  the  last  to  live  over  again  that  precious 
season,  though  to  her  crowded  with  peculiar  cares 
and  trembling  responsibilities. 

They  remained  in  Brookline  that  winter.  In  the 
spring  of  1829,  Mr.  Ware  virtually  resigned  his  pas- 
toral charge,  and  a  colleague  pastor  was  chosen, 
while  a  new  professorship  was  planned  for  him  in 
the  Divinity  School  at  Cambridge.  At  the  same 
time,  he  was  urged  by  generous  friends,  who  offered 
the  means,  to  go  first  with  his  wife  to  Europe,  for 
entire  rest  and  the  recovery  of  his  health.  This 
unexpected  opportunity  he  felt  it  right  to  use.  And 
his  wife,  who  was  herself  not  well,  thus  speaks  of  it 
to  Mrs.  Paine,  in  a  letter  of  several  dates :  — 


NEW    RELATIONSi  209 

"  Brookline,  December  31,  1828. 
"  My  dear,  kind  Friend  :  — 
"  I  have  been  for  a  long  time  prohibited  from  using  my 
eyes,  or  should  ere  this  have  despatched  to  you  the  epistle 
which  for  many  a  weary  week  has  been  prepared  in  my 
brain  for  you ;  and  now  being  still  under  the  same  interdict, 
I  can  only  venture  to  remind  you  that  there  is  still  in  exist- 
ence the  same  old  friend,  who  has  been  wont  upon  this  eve 
to  pour  forth  to  you  a  copious  stream  of  egotism,  who  never 
longed  for  the  time  to  come  when  she  might  do  so,  more 
than  at  this  present ;  but  who,  for  the  trial  of  her  patience, 
must  lay  aside  her  pen,  and,  wishing  you  every  blessing, 
wait  until  she  is  at  liberty  to  use  her  eyes  to  say  more. 

"  January  23,  Although  still  unable  to  use  my  eyes  with- 
out suffering,  I  am  strongly  tempted,  by  an  empty  house 
and  an  unoccupied  hour,  to  renew,  in  some  small  measure, 
the  intercourse  which  has  so  long  ceased  between  us,  and 
cannot  help  seating  myself,  pen  in  hand,  to  give  you  a  few 
moments.     I  have 

"  March  30.    I  was  interrupted  by  company  at  the  above 

pauses ;  and  since  then,  dear  N ,  what  a  revolution  in 

the  state  of  things  around  me  !  It  seems  like  a  dream  that 
I  am  again  on  the  eve  of  departure  for  Europe.  It  is  in- 
deed a  dream  from  which  I  should  like  to  awake ;  and  yet 
I  am  so  sure  that  it  is  right  to  do  just  what  we  are  doing, 
that  the  spirit  faints  not,  nor  even  falters.  I  do  not,  indeed, 
dare  to  think,  but  have  busied  myself  in  visiting  my  parish, 
and  do  not  fear  but  that  power  will  be  given.     Yet,  dear 

N ,  what  a  lot  is  mine !    Surely  I  ought  to  be  better  for 

all  this  various  blessing. 

"  Ever  yours. 

"M.  L.  W." 
18* 


210 


NEW    RELATIONS. 


In  closing  the  first,  and  only  year  of  Mary  Ware's 
"  parish  life,"  we  remember  that  it  was  also  the  first 
year  of  her  married  life,  and  an  immediate  entrance 
upon  the  office  of  a  mother.  To  her  views  of  this 
office  we  have  already  referred,  but  have  feared  to 
say  all  we  know  to  be  true  of  her  discharge  of  its 
duties.  There  is  a  veil  which  we  may  not  raise,  a 
sanctuary  which  none  can  enter.  Yet  it  is  due  to 
her  and  to  her  children,  —  it  is  due  to  the  greatness  ot 
a  trust  whose  difficulties  all  see,  but  few  estimate 
kindly,  —  to  speak  of  the  glowing  filial  love,  the  rever- 
ent and  grateful  obligation,  expressed  by  those  who 
were  permitted  to  call  her  "  mother,"  and  whose 
sense  of  indebtedness  grows  with  their  days.  By 
the  exercise  of  a  sound  discretion  in  exigencies  un- 
avoidable and  seldom  allowed  for,  —  by  freedom  of 
intercourse  through  the  day,  and  prayer  and  blessing 
at  night,  —  by  a  tenderness  that  made  counsel  always 
kind  and  discipline  never  disheartening,  —  in  a  word, 
by  a  yearning  affection  which  has  caused  a  start 
and  regret  at  any  allusion  to  her  not  being  "their 
own  mother,"  she  took  possession  of  their  hearts  for 
life ;  and  her  death  called  forth,  in  the  simple  words 
of  one,  the  unutterable  sentiment  of  both,  —  "  Surely 
God  never  gave  a  boy  such  a  mother,  or  a  man 
Buch  a  friend." 


IX. 

EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

On  the  1st  of  April,  1829,  Mrs.  Ware  sailed  from 
Boston,  with  her  husband,  in  the  ship  Dover,  for 
Liverpool.  One  of  the  older  children  was  left  at 
board  and  in  school,  the  other  in  Mr.  William  Ware's 
family,  in  New  York ;  while  the  infant  was  confided 
to  Mr.  Ware's  sister,  Mrs.  Lincoln,  —  an  arrange- 
ment that  relieved  the  mother  of  anxiety,  as  far  as 
was  possible  with  any  separation.  But  no  parent 
will  need  to  be  told  what  she  must  have  suffered,  at 
best,  in  leaving  behind  her  her  first  babe,  not  a  year 
old,  to  cross  the  ocean  and  go  into  distant  lands  for 
an  indefinite  time,  with  a  sick  husband  on  whose 
restoration  or  return  no  calculation  could  be  made. 
Yet  we  see  in  her  not  a  moment's  hesitation,  we 
hear  from  her  no  expression  of  doubt  or  the  least 
despondence.  Physicians  and  judicious  friends  ad- 
vised the  step,  her  husband's  health  and  power  of 
usefulness,  if  not  his  life,  might  depend  upon  it ;  and 
this  was  enough,  even  if  her  own  judgment  had  dif- 
fered, as  we  have  no  reason  to  think  it  did.  It 
was  a  feature  of  her  mind  very  prominent,  as  it 
must  be  of  every  well-balanced  mind,  that  she  nev- 
er suffered  herself  to  be  tortured  with  doubts  or 
fears  for  the  future  when  the  present  duty  was  clear, 


212  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

and  never  lamented  that  she  had  done  that  which 
seemed  right  and  best,  whatever  the  issue.  As  she 
writes,  on  one  occasion,  of  her  own  habits  of  mind 
and  long  experience  :  — "  There  is  no  one  thing  that 
has  been  more  important  to  my  comfort,  under  any 
result  of  my  plans,  than  the  consciousness  that  they 
were  decided  upon  after  a  full  and  careful  delibera- 
tion of  all  other  possible  plans,  and  a  calm  judgment 
concerning  them  all.  Then  I  felt  I  had  done  all  that 
poor  human  nature  could  do;  the  rest  was  in  God's 
hands,  —  it  was  all  in  God's  hands.  1  was  satisfied 
that  this  decision  was  in  the  order  of  his  providence, 
and,  come  what  might,  I  could  never  regret  it,  or 
spend  one  vain,  impious  iviah  that  I  had  taken  an- 
other course.  But,  in  order  to  make  this  decision 
satisfactory,  I  have  always  desired  to  know  the  whole 
truth,  and  be  convinced  that  I  'had  a  perfect  view  of 
the  whole  case  in  hand ;  and  have  sought  suggestions 
from  others,  not  for  my  guidance,  but  that  I  might 
be  sure  I  had  deliberated  upon  all  the  varieties  of 
plan  which  could  be  thought  of." 

This  principle  was  now  to  be  put  to  a  severe  test, 
the  severest,  perhaps,  of  her  whole  life.  We  have 
seen  what  she  did,  and  what  she  suflfered,  in  her  for- 
mer visit  abroad.  Totally  different  were  the  circum- 
stances now,  but  none  of  them  such  as  to  make  the 
trial  less.  Then  she  had  been  alone  as  a  traveller, 
and  also  alone  as  to  all  exposure  and  peril.  Now 
she  was  to  feel  and  fear  for  the  one  most  dear  to  her 
in  life,  one  who  was  ill  able  to  bear  the  fatigues  and 
discomforts  to  which  he  must  be  subjected,  and 
whom  neither  his  own  faith  nor  her  serenity  could 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  213 

keep  from  depression  and  discouragement  Through 
the  whole  period  of  their  absence,  which  proved  to 
be  a  year  and  a  half,  Mr.  Ware  could  not  be  said  to 
be  well  for  a  single  day.  Much  of  the  time,  he  yield- 
ed to  dejection  and  apprehension,  as  she  had  never 
kno'wn  him  before.  He  enjoyed  much,  but  suffered 
more.  Not  bodily  suffering  wholly,  or  chiefly ;  but 
that  which  is  much  harder  to  bear,  —  the  hardest  of  all, 

—  a  sense  of  helplessness  and  the  increasing  fear  of 
uselessness ;  the  conviction,  in  the  very  prime  of  life, 
that  life's  work  must  be  left  undone,  a  calling  which 
he  dearly  loved  be  relinquished,  and  he  either  remain 
abroad  a  wanderer  in  search  of  health,  or  return 
home  with  only  the  capacity  of  projecting  numerous 
plans  and  labors,  not  one  of  which  would  be  ever 
accomplished.  All  this  his  wife  shared,  at  least  in 
its  effect;  against  all  this  she  had  constantly  to  con- 
tend, bearing  most  of  the  responsibility  of  measures 
and  results,  her  own  health  not  strong,  and  soon  sub- 
jected to  peculiar  and  most  anxious  trials. 

We  have  no  desire  to  magnify  these  trials.  We 
only  wish  to  set  them  in  their  true  light,  as  making 
an  unusual  —  not  an  unprecedented,  but  an  unusual 

—  demand  upon  the  trust,  endurance,  and  energy 
of  a  wife  and  mother.  She  herself  has  been  heard  to 
say,  that  this  was  the  most  trying  period  of  her  life  ; 
that  no  other  experience  equalled  it.  Yet  this  would 
hardly  be  inferred  from  her  letters  at  the  time.  They 
Were  necessarily  few,  but  written  with  her  usual 
cheerfulness  and  unfailing  hopefulness.  Not  all  of 
them,  however.  One  or  two  we  have  seen,  such  as 
cannot  be  used,  that  intimate,  rather  than  express, 


214  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

peculiar  suffering  and  solicitude.  But  this  was  in 
confidence,  and  for  counsel;  it  being  one  of  the  pe- 
culiarities of  the  case  that  it  presented  many  points 
where  it  was  very  difficult  to  decide  whether  wis- 
dom and  duty  should  carry  them  farther  on,  or  turn 
them  instantly  back,  —  and  the  decision  was  with 
her. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  follow  them  closely  in 
their  foreign  tour.  Those  who  wish  to  trace  its 
progress,  and  note  the  dates  and  incidents,  will  find 
them  in  the  Memoir  of  Henry  "Ware  by  his  brother. 
They  visited  England,  Scotland,  Ireland,  Holland, 
Switzerland,  Italy,  and  France,  spending  the  winter 
in  Italy.  The  first  summer  they  passed  over  much 
of  the  ground  and  sought  the  spots,  in  England,  so 
familiar  and  memorable  to  Mary  from  her  former  ex- 
perience. They  visited  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Mrs. 
Hemans,  Miss  Edgeworth ;  and  passed  much  time 
with  Unitarian  ministers,  whom  Mr.  Ware  wished 
particularly  to  see,  that  he  might  learn  all  he  could 
of  their  position,  cultivate  a  fraternal  feeling,  and 
open  the  way  for  a  more  frequent  and  friendly  corre- 
spondence between  those  of  the  same  household  of 
faith  in  England  and  America.  About  the  last  of 
August  they  went  to  the  Continent,  taking  Holland 
first,  and  thence  through  Switzerland  into  Italy 
reaching  Rome  in  December,  and  remaining  there 
until  April. 

The  few  letters  that  Mrs.  Ware  wrote  home  will 
be  given  in  the  order  of  their  dates,  with  little  ex- 
planation or  comment.  Some  are  in  the  form  of  a 
journal ;  and  here  and  there  we  see  the  hand  of  Mr. 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  215 

Ware,  taking   up  the   thread   which    his  wife    had 
dropped,  and  then  leaving  her  to  resume. 

"  Greta  Bridge,  July  8,  1829. 
"  My  dear  Emma  :  — 

"  I  slept  last  night  in  the  very  same  room,  at  Barnard 
Castle,  which  you  and  I  occupied  four  years  ago.  And 
having  been  in  many  places  lately  where  we  had  been  to- 
gether, such  as  Studley,  Ripon,  and  the  George  Inn  at 
York,  where  we  parted,  and  moreover,  as  you  have  visited 
me  in  my  dreams,  night  after  night,  for  a  long  time  past,  1 
feel  that  I  must  yield  to  the  desire  of  writing  to  you,  al- 
though it  may  be  but  a  few  lines  of  uninteresting  matter. 
This  place  will,  however,  insure  to  the  letter  some  value, 
for  I  remember  well  how  you  wished  that  the  rain  would 
abate,  that  you  might  see  something  of  its  beauties.  I 
wished  it  also  then,  but  I  wish  it  much  more  now,  that  I 
have  had  an  opportunity  of 

"  Here  the  arrival  of  the  coach  which  was  to  take  us 
from  this  paradise  cut  short  Mary's  opportunity,  and  I  dare 
say  she  will  not  remember  what  she  was  going  to  write  ;  so 
that  I,  her  substitute  and  lieutenant,  go  on  to  tell  you  how 
much  we  have  mentioned  your  name  while  on  these  ro- 
mantic grounds,  and  how  glad  we  should  have  been  to  trace 
with  you  the  paths  of  Rokeby  and  Greta  in  memory 

"  My  lieutenant  seems  to  have  been  cut  off  in  his  march 
rather  abrupdy  also ;  so  I  must  beg  you  to  imagine  what 
beautiful  associations  of  persons  or  things  he  was  about  to 
recall,  and  proceed  with  my  own  plain  story, — just  to  tell 
you  that  we  were  more  than  satisfied  with  our  walk ;  it  quite 
meets  Scott's  description.  We  trod  the  same  path  by 
which  Bertram  and  Wycliffe  wound  their  way  from  Bar- 
nard Casde  to  Mortham,  and  a  wilder  or  more  witching 
scene  could  scarcely  be  imagined.     We  had  walked  from 


216  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

Stockton  to  the  Castle  by  the  side  of  the  Tees,  sixteen 
miles,  stopping  for  refreshment  and  rest  at  the  little,  humble 
inns  which  alone  are  to  be  found  on  this  unfrequented 
route;  and  truly,  after  the  parade  and  luxury  of  large  no- 
tels,  it  was  a  delightful  change  to  see  something  of  simple 
country  life.  You  would  have  enjoyed  it,  too,  notwithstand- 
ing the  novelty  of  carrying  the  equipments  of  one's  toilet  in 
our  pockets. 

"  At  Penrith  we  found  our  letters  by  the  May  packet,  end 
yours,  dear  Emma,  was  most  welcome,  not  only  for  the 
news  you  gave  me  of  my  darling  children,  but  for  the  kind 
feelings  which  dictated  it,  and  the  great  entertainment  it 
gave  us.  It  was  just  such  a  letter  as  we  wanted  just  at  that 
time ;  it  was  the  latest  account,  too,  that  we  had  had,  for 
though  one  from  Mrs.  Barnard,  and  another  from  Dr.  John 
and  William,  reached  us  at  the  same  time,  they  were  of 
earlier  date.  You  brought  my  little  Robert  more  vividly 
before  my  eyes  than  any  thing  I  have  heard  of  him.  I 
could  see  his  little  hand  resting  on  Clarissa's  shoulder,  look- 
ing half  coaxingly  at  you  ;  and  if  the  picture  made  me  long 
to  try  if  he  would  notice  me  any  better,  I  was  amply  com- 
pensated for  my  inability  to  do  so  by  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  doing  so  well,  and  under  such  kind  care.  At  Penrith 
I  had  an  attack  similar  to  that  which  I  had  when  you  were 
at  Brookline  with  me,  which  detained  us  a  day;  but,  as  it 
rained,  it  was  not  of  much  consequence.  We  had  pro- 
jected a  drive  round  the  lakes  in  a  gig,  and  this  plan  we 
entered  upon  the  next  day  (Saturday,  11th), — just  such  a 
day  as  we  should  have  asked  for.  We  went  to  Ambleside, 
via  Ullswater  and  Patterdale,  where  we  spent  Sunday ; 
beard  Wordsworth's  son  preach,  and  looked  at  Winder- 
mere. Monday  we  breakfasted  with  Wordsworth  at  that 
lovely  place,  which  1  doubt  not  is  still  visible  to  your  mind's 
eye,  as  we  saw  it  that  beautiful  morning.     It  looked  just  as 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  217 

beautiful  without,  and  as  perfectly  in  keeping  within,  as  we 
had  imagined  it.  I  confessed  our  theft,  to  the  no  small 
amusement  of  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  who  did  not,  however, 
seem  surprised  at  our  feelings.  Wordsworth,  his  wife,  son, 
and  daughter,  composed  the  party.  I  wished  I  could  have 
seen  him  again. 

"  July  16.  Dear  me,  what  a  careless  child  !  I  have  just 
discovered  that  I  began  my  letter  on  a  sheet  which  Mr. 
Ware  had  one  quarter  filled  to  another  person ;  and,  having 
no  time  to  rewrite,  I  must  send  it  piecemeal.  I  was  going  to 
say,  that  I  wished  I  could  have  seen  Wordsworth  again,  be- 
cause he  did  not  meet  my  expectation ;  and  therefore  I  felt 
disappointed,  in  spite  of  all  my  reasoning  with  myself  tha* 
my  imagination  should  not  be  the  standard  in  such  a  case 
Besides,  such  a  man  could  not  be  seen  at  one  view ;  that 
which  is  most  delightful  in  him  would  not  be  delightful  if 
it  were  external. 

"  The  ride  to  Keswick  you  will  remember  well.  It  lost 
nothing  by  being  seen  a  second  time.  We  were  at  the 
same  inn  at  which  we  formerly  stopped  ;  and  I  could  hear, 
perhaps,  the  same  horses  tramping  along  the  same  pave- 
ment over  which  our  nags  paced  their  way  for  us  that 
memorable  morning. 

"  We  drank  tea  at  Southey's,  whose  residence  is  much 
more  like  a  poet's  than  it  appeared  at  a  distance,  having  a 
fine  view  of  the  lake  between  the  trees  with  which  it  is 
almost  enveloped.  I  heard  him  talk  but  little,  as  there  was 
a  party  at  the  house ;  but  was  more  pleased  with  that  little 
than  I  expected  to  be.  His  study  is  just  the  most  enviable 
one  that  I  ever  have  seen.  The  next  day  we  went  upon  an 
expedition  to  Crummock  and  Buttermere,  which,  though 
fatiguing,  we  enjoyed  highly,  having  a  fine  row  upon  the 
lake.  We  returned  to  Keswick  by  a  road  which  giga 
19 


218  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

seldom  pass  over,  the  Crag  through  Borrowdale.  It  was 
just  such  an  expedition  as  you  would  have  enjoyed  on 
horseback,  perhaps  on  foot,  as  we  took  it  for  three  of  the 
worst  miles  I  ever  passed  over  for  roughness  and  wildness. 
The  last  part  amply  repaid  us  for  our  toil.  We  rode  by 
the  side  of  the  Keswick  lake  for  the  whole  length,,  just  as 
the  sun  was  setting,  yesterday. 

"  July  17.  O,  what  would  you  not  give  for  the  sight 
which  is  before  me  now!  —  'fair  Melrose,'  not  by  the 
'  pale  moonlight,'  but  by  the  light  of  as  beautiful  a  sunset 
as  you  could  ask  for  upon  such  a  scene.  I  have  not  been 
out  of  the  house  yet,  having  contented  myself  with  looking 
at  it  from  my  window,  and  am  now,  with  all  diligence, 
scribbling  for  the  next  Boston  packet,  while  Mr.  Ware  has 
gone  to  see  Mrs.  Hemans,  who  wrote  us  that  we  should 
find  her  in  this  neighborhood.  This  is  no  small  addition  to 
the  attractions  of  Melrose.  I  feel  very  much  as  if  I  were 
going  to  see  an  old  friend,  so  near  does  sympathy  with  a 
[person's  writings  bring  one  to  the  writer  himself,  in  soul  at 
least,  if  not  in  the  outward  expression.  On  our  way  hither 
from  Selkirk,  we  passed  Abbotsford.  A  motley  group  of 
towers  and  chimneys  did  it  appear ;  and  it  verily  made  me 
hold  up  my  head,  and  feel  stronger,  at  the  thought  of 
breathing  the  same  atmosphere  with  its  mighty  inhabitant. 
We  passed  Branksome  also  to-day,  and  came  through  Tev- 
iotdale,  —  classic  ground  every  inch  of  it.  But  it  will  not 
answer  for  me  to  run  on  at  this  rate ;  I  shall  scarcely  com- 
plete one  letter  beside,  when  I  wish  to  write  fifty. 

"  Just  at  this  point  Henry  returned  from  his  call,  with  the 
original  '  Dominie  Sampson,'  and  the  intelligence  that  Mrs. 
Hemans  would  join  us  in  our  intended  visit  to  the  Abbey. 
The  moon  is  just  now  in  full-orbed  splendor.  Thither, 
!herefore,  we  repaired ;  and  1  met  Mrs.   Memuus  for  tlic 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  219 

tirst  lime  on  the  top  of  one  of  the  towers,  in  such  a  scene 
as  beggars  all  powers  of  description.  Never  were  mortals 
more  favored  by  the  heavens  and  the  earth  for  such  an 
expedition.  The  air  was  very  mild  ;  not  a  sound  disturbed 
the  midnight  stillness  but  the  chirping  of  the (I  can- 
not remember  its  Scotch  name  ;  its  sound  is  somewhat  like 
a  cricket's).  There  were  just  clouds  enough  to  give  us  all 
the  varieties  of  light  and  shade.  We  did  enjoy  it  highly. 
And  yet  we  almost  wished  we  had  been  alone.  One  did 
not  want  to  have  the  interest  divided ;  and  the  Dominie's 
dry  sayings  and  droll  manner  had  such  an  effect  upon  our 
risibles,  that  we  had,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  a  little  too  much 
of  the  ridiculous' with  the  sublime.  This  Dominie,  whose 
real  name  is  Thomson,  junior  minister  of  the  kirk  of  Mel- 
rose, is  unique,  not  exactly  such  as  Sir  Walter  has  de- 
scribed, but  quite  as  original. 

But  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  letter,  that  is,  my  time. 
Love  to  all,  at  Canton,  Milton,  Brookline,  Nahant,  Rox- 
bury,  Boston,  —  a  goodly  company  truly.  We  have  just 
had  a  ride  to  Dryburgh  Abbey,  on  the  Tweed,  a  fine  ruin 
beautifully  situated.  The  river  here  answers  Scott's  de- 
scription better  than  at  Berwick.  There  are  very  many 
lovely  situations  upon  its  banks.  But  I  must  close.  With 
Mr.  Ware's  united  love,  and  sincere  wishes  that  you  were 
with  us,  yours  most  affectionately, 

"Mary  L.  Ware." 

"  to  mrs.  lucy  allen  and  mrs.  harriet  hall. 

"  Geneva,  October  11,  1829. 

"  My  dear  good  Sisters  :  — 

"  Wishing  to  say  very  much  the  same  things  to  you  both, 

and   finding  that  the  expense  and   trouble  of  transporting 

letters  from  this  place  across  the  Atlantic  are  pretty  consid- 

erahle.,  I  am  induced  to  address  you  both  at  once ;  hoping 


220  EirnopEAN  tour. 

that  the  question  of  title  to  the  possession  of  this  valuable 
docfument  will  not  give  rise  to  a  nwre  severe  litigation  than 
the  lawyers  of  Massachusetts  will  be  able  to  settle.  Your 
letters  reached  us  in  the  course  of  time ;  yours,  Lucy, 
while  we  were  in  London,  and  Harriet's  just  three  months 
after  its  last  date ;  both  most  welcome.  It  is  a  pleasure 
which  none  but  a  pilgrim  can  understand,  to  see  the  veri- 
table handwriting  of  a  friend  when  separated  by  such  a 
space.  You  say  much  of  the  pleasure  we  shall  receive 
in  these  foreign  parts  from  the  novelty,  &c.  of  what  we 
may  encounter.  So  it  is ;  and  I  trust  that  I  shall  enjoy  all 
that  we  should  do  from  the  privilege  allowed  us.  But  I 
can  tell  you,  under  the  rose,  that  there  is  no  pleasure  in  all 
this  wide  creation  like  that  of  sitting  down  in  a  quiet  corner, 
no  matter  what  may  be  around  us,  holding  communion 
with  home ;  and  I  fully  believe  that  all  travellers  would  tell 
you  the  same,  if  their  pride  would  let  them. 

"  We  have,  as  you  may  have  learned,  fulfilled  in  part 
your  first  wish,  Harriet,  —  we  have  seen  Miss  Edgeworth, 
but  not  Sir  Walter.  She  is  a  short,  rather  fat,  extremely 
homely,  perhaps  I  might  say  ugly  woman,  without  a  spark 
of  intellectual  expression  in  her  still  face,  and  not  over- 
much in  her  most  animated  moments  ;  but  as  full  of  anima- 
tion, kind  feeling,  good  sense,  and  intelligence,  in  her  con- 
versation, as  one  could  desire ;  a  great  talker,  and  a  very 
good  listener;  not  an  item  of  pedantry  or  self-sufficiency, 
or  indeed  any  thing  of  what  one  would  fear  to  find  in  her 
father's  daughter,  or  in  any  woman  who  had  been  so  cele- 
brated ;  easy,  playful,  natural.  We  forgot  it  was  the  re- 
nowned Miss  Edgeworth,  and  felt  only  that  it  was  some- 
body who  must  be  loved  and  admired.  We  found  her  in 
the  old  family  mansion  at  Edgcworthstown,  whither  we 
went  fifty  miles  only  out  of  our  way  to  see  her ;  but  all  the 
awkwardness  of  such  a  lion-seeking  visit  was  entirely  taken 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  221 

off  by  the  reception  we  met  with  from  the  whole  family, 
and  we  should  have  felt  quite  at  our  ease  to  have  passed  a 
week  there.  We  could  stay  only  a  part  of  three  days ; 
that  is,  part  of  two,  and  the  whole  of  the  intermediate  one. 
The  only  impediment  to  our  comfort  was,  that,  being  con- 
stantly in  the  family  circle,  which  is  a  large  one,  we  could 
not  talk  with  the  lady  herself  upon  many  points  which 
would  have  been  most  interesting.  Perhaps  we  saw  her 
to  peculiar  advantage,  but  we  certainly  do  feel  that  she 
has  been  greatly  scandalized  in  having  the  reputation  of 
acting  the  pedantic  authoress,  and  partaking  of  her  father's 
scepticism.     So  much  for  Miss  Edgeworth. 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  half  as  much  of  Sir  Walter  from 
personal  observation,  but  he  was  out  when  Henry  called 
with  his  friend,  Mr.  Hamilton ;  and  he  is  so  overpowered 
with  visitors,  that  we  were  not  willing  to  add  ourselves  to 
the  list  of  the  curious  who  persecute  him.  We  were  de- 
lighted with  all  that  we  heard  of  him  ;  indeed,  the  nearer 
we  viewed  his  character,  through  the  medium  of  those  who 
knew  him,  the  more  our  admiration  and  desire  to  see  him 
increased.  It  would  really  seem  that  his  vast  intellect  is 
his  least  remarkable  feature.  We  saw  many  of  his  famil- 
iar letters  to  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  that  was  next  best  to 
hearing  him  talk,  for  they  are  just  like  conversation.  Mrs. 
Hemans,  too,  we  have  seen,  and  Bowring  a  great  deal, 
and  some  others  of  the  noted  of  the  present  day ;  and  we 
shall  treasure  the  remembrance  of  the  few,  for  they  have 
been  but  few. 

''  It  has  been  truly  tantalizing  to  pass  through  Switzer- 
land in  clouds  and  darkness,  now  and  then  catching  a 
glimpse  of  its  beauties  to  show  us  what  we  were  losing,  but 
the  far  greater  part  of  the  time  passing  through  the  very 
finest  portions  of  the  Alpine  scenery  without  any  visible  in- 
dications that  we  were  not  in  a  level  country.  But  we  have 
19* 


222 


EUROPEAN    TOUR. 


proceeded  thus  far  free  from  sickness,  danger,  or  even  difli- 
culty,  and  have  therefore  too  much  reason  to  be  grateful  to 
find  it  possible  to  complain. 

"  We  find  a  great  deal  to  amuse  us  in  the  various  habits 
and  customs  of  the  countries  through  which  we  pass,  par- 
ticularly since  we  left  England  ;  and  the  eating  and  drink- 
ing part  of  the  business  is  not  the  least  entertaining.  We, 
however,  manage  to  please  ourselves,  and  our  entertainers, 
too,  pretty  well.  Henry  eats  his  bread  and  milk  as  com- 
fortably as  he  would  at  home,  and  I  do  what  justice  I  can 
to  the  various  dishes  which  are  set  before  me,  though, 
when  they  amount,  as  they  have  done,  to  twenty  in  number, 
in  spite  of  all  the  '  J'ai  fini's '  I  could  utter,  I  have  excited 
a  smile  of  contempt  from  the  waiter,  who  wondered  at  the 
barbarism  of  dining  from  one  dish.  We  have  not  seen  a 
carpet  since  we  left  Holland,  except  upon  the  sitting-room 
of  an  English  lady  here,  and  we  have  been  in  some  hand- 
somely  furnished   houses O  this   pen,   ink,  and 

paper !  I  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  them,  but  leave  them 
to  Henry.     Your  sister  Mary. 

"Dear  girls,  women,  or  wives:  My  loquacious  helpmate 
has  merely  left  me  a  place  to  send  my  love,  and  to  say  I 
wish  I  had  room  to  write  to  you  and  your  husbands.  By 
way  of  supplement,  I  will  just  say  of  myself,  that  I  am  now 
able  to  talk  while  riding,  without  pain,  which  I  never  could 
do  before  we  left  England  ;  and  can  also  read  loud  a  little 
while.  This  is  something  worth  telling  of.  My  visit  to 
Geneva,  owing  to  circumstances,  is  the  least  satisfactory  that 
I  have  made.  You  will  perhaps  hear  again  from  the  land 
of  the  Caesars,  whence  I  will  dictate  a  letter  full  of  '  ettas,' 
and  '  inas,'  and  '  issimas,'  and  '  ulinas,'  and  other  satin  eu* 
phonisms.     Meanwhile,  peace  be  with  you  !    Your  brother 

"  Henry." 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  223 

We  have  added  Mr.  Ware's  pleasant  little  post- 
script to  the  last  letter,  chiefly  to  show,  by  his  cwn 
confession,  how  very  feeble  he  must  have  been,  and 
how  great  her  anxiety  and  care.  Indeed,  she  says 
of  him  at  this  time,  "  His  system  requires  rest ;  it 
will  be  long  before  it  is  fit  for  use  again."  She  her- 
self was  far  from  well,  and  had  the  depressing  pros- 
pect of  a  more  serious  sickness,  in  a  foreign  land, 
with  added  cares.  And  yet  neither  of  them  was 
idle,  during  any  period  of  that  trial.  They  accom- 
plished a  great  deal  in  various  ways,  and  prepared 
one  distinct  work  for  publication.  We  say,  they  did 
it  ^  for  Mrs.  Ware  seems  to  have  joined  in  that  labor 
which  afterward  gave  us  one  of  the  most  useful  ol 
Henry  Ware's  works.  We  refer  to  his  treatise  on 
the  "  Formation  of  the  Christian  Character."  It  is 
probably  known  that  this  book  was  written  almost 
entirely  in  travelling ;  first  in  this  country,  during 
the  horseback  jaunt  which  Mr.  Ware  took  alone 
through  New  England  to  Canada,  in  1828,  and  then 
abroad,  at  various  stages  of  this  European  tour. 
And  here  it  was  in  Mrs.  Ware's  power  to  be  of 
essential  service  to  her  husband,  in  a  way  which  she 
explains  in  a  letter  written  late  in  life,  half  jestingly 
taking  to  herself  a  part  of  the  credit  for  the  work  to 
which  we  refer.  To  Dr.  John  Ware  she  writes,  in 
1844,  in  reference  to  her  husband's  labors  in  this 
and  other  ways,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing:— 

"You  will  gather  from  the  letters  of  European 
friends  in  what  estimate  he  was  held  by  them. 
That  is  of  little  import;  but  it  shows  how  faithfully 


224  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

he  preserved  his  identity  as  a  minister  of  the  Gospel. 
In  looking  back  upon  the  jaunt,  as  a  whole,  nothing 
is  so  prominent  to  my  mind  as  the  perpetual  indica- 
tions of  his  ruling  passion,  if  I  may  call  it  so,  —  his 
love  of  his  profession, — the  eagerness  with  which 
he  sought  out  his  ministerial  brethren  wherever  he 
heard  of  them,  stopping  by  the  way-side  to  introduce 
himself  and  extend  to  them  the  hand  of  fellowship, 
often  going  out  of  the  way  many  miles  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  making  all  other  objects  subservient  to  that 
of  increasing  his  knowledge  of  men  and  things  per- 
taininsr  to  the  ministerial  life.     I  knoiv  his  visit  was 

O 

a  useful  one  to  his  brethren  in  many  respects 

"  You  know,  I  believe,  that  the  greater  part  of  his 
work  upon  the  'Christian  Character'  was  written 
on  that  tour.  Its  pages  are  to  my  memory  a  sort 
of  diary  of  our  progress,  associated  as  they  are  with 
the  pleasant  evenings,  when,  after  our  autumnal  day's 
journey,  having  despatched  our  supper,  we  settled 
ourselves  at  a  little  table  before  a  cheerful  wood-fire 
in  our  inn,  and  he  with  his  writing  materials,  and  I 
with  my  work,  or  writing  or  reading,  could  almost 
imagine  ourselves  at  home.  Thus  were  my  even- 
ings spent  in  alternate  writing,  reading,  and  criti- 
cism, until  I  almost  felt  as  if  I  had  written  the  book 
myself  I " 

The  end  of  the  year  1829  found  Mr.  and  Mrs 
Ware  travelling  from  Rome  to  Naples ;  and  on  the 
"  last  night,"  faithful  to  her  friendships  everywhere, 
she  began  the  regular  "annual"  to  Mrs.  Paine, 
which  she  did  not  finish  till  after  their  return  to 
Rome,  thus  giving  some  account  of  their  condition 
in  both  places. 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  225 

*^St.  Agatha*  December  31,  1829 

•'  My  dear  Nancy  :  — 
"  This  is  not  the  first  annual  which  you  have  received 
with  a  foreign  date  ;  neither  can  you  be  surprised  at  any 
aberration  in  my  orbit.  And  yet  methinks  you  will  have 
to  consider  twice  before  you  can  quite  realize  that  it  is 
'  Pearl  Street  Mary  Pickard,'  who  is  writing  you  from  this 
region  of  ancient  glory  and  far-famed  beauty.  But  so  it  is  ; 
and  could  you  look  in  upon  me,  you  would  wonder,  as  I  do, 
that  the  veiy  peculiar  changes  of  the  eighteen  years  you 
have  known  me  should  leave  me  so  precisely  the  same. 
1  begin  to  think  that  I  am  made  of  most  invulnerable  ma- 
terials ;  for  here  1  sit  —  surrounded  by  as  singular  and  try- 
ing circumstances  as  any  which  I  have  ever  known  —  as 
easy  and  happy,  I  had  almost  said  as  indifferent,  as  if  the 
world  were  jogging  on  with  me  in  the  tamest  way  imagina- 
ble. At  no  period  of  my  life  have  I  had  more  for  which 
to  be  thankful  in  reviewing  the  year  which  has  passed, — 
that  we  should  have  travelled  so  far  without  the  slightest 
accident,  leaving  our  dearest  interests  so  well  provided  for, 
finding  so  much  kindness  wherever  we  have  been,  and  so 
many  facilities  for  our  enjoyment ;  and  above  all,  that  my 
husband,  though  not  much  better,  should  not  have  been 
made  much  worse  by  all  the  disadvantages  under  which  he 
has  labored  of  climate  and  weather.  If  I  were  at  your 
elbow,  how  I  should  love  to  give  you  a  detail  of  some  of 
our  experiences  during  the  year.  You  know  enough  of  the 
outlines  to  guess  at  the  minutiae  in  many  instances,  and 
enough  of  us  both  to  imagine  the  internal  effects  produced 
by  them. 

"  Rome,  March  2d.     Back  in  Rome  again,  after  a  five 

*  "  A  little  village,  or  rather  almost  solitary  inn,  between  Borne  and 
Naples." 


226  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

weeks'  sojourn  in  Naples,  from  which  place  1  should  have 
despatched  this,  but  that  I  did  not  think  it  quitf^  worth  while 
to  send  such  a  piece  of  egotism  so  far  by  mail.  We  had 
almost  incessant  rain  while  at  Naples,  which  prevented  our 
doing  and  seeing  as  much  as  we  wished  ;  but  the  few  fine 
days  we  had,  we  enjoyed  and  employed  to  the  utmost. 
Although  in  January,  they  were  like  our  June  days.  A 
shawl  was  too  warm  a  garment  to  be  borne  in  the  sun,  and 
upon  our  out-of-town  expeditions  we  took  our  lunch  in  the 
open  air.  These  were  rare  days,  to  be  sure,  but  they  gave 
us  some  idea  of  what  the  climate  would  have  been  had  the 
season  been  a  common  one,  for  so  much  rain  at  that  time, 
they  told  us,  was  almost  unprecedented.  We  went  of 
course  to  Pompeii,  where  I  had  many  and  pleasant  recol- 
lections of  your  husband,  tell  him  ;  for  the  explanations 
which  he  gave  me,  when  we  saw  the  panorama  of  that  place 
together  in  London,  had  made  it  all  so  familiar  to  my  mind 
that  I  could  not  easily  overcome  the  impression  that  I  had 
been  there  before.  Vesuvius  we  were  content  to  admire  at 
a  distance,  fearing  the  ascent  would  be  injurious  to  my 
husband.  But  the  classical  regions  of  Avernus  and  the 
Elysian  fields,  the  abode  of  the  Cumsean  Sibyl,  and  the 
beautiful  temples  of  Baise,  we  explored  at  our  leisure. 

"  I  can  scarcely  fancy  any  locality  more  beautiful  for  a 
city  than  that  of  Naples,  and,  viewed  at  a  distance,  it  has  a 
very  imposing  appearance  ;  but  in  itself  it  is  noisy,  dirty, 
and  disagreeable,  with  the  exception  of  the  modern  part  of 
the  street  which  borders  upon  the  bay.  We  had  rooms  in 
that  street,  within  forty  feet  of  the  water,  and  in  rain  or 
sunshine  enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  bay  with  equal  delight. 
We  returned  hither  in  company  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grinnell, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rollins,  with  whom  we  have  been  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  since  we  arrived  in  Florence  in 
November.    We  are  at  lodgings  with  them  here,  and,  as  you 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  227 

may  suppose,  very  much  enjoy  our  quiet  family  party. 
We  have  also  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Kirkland,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gould,  from  our  part  of  the  country,  and  many  from  New 
York. 

"  There  is  so  much  to  be  done  here,  and  my  husband  is 
obliged  to  do  things  so  leisurely,  that  I  know  not  that  we 
shall  ever  see  half  that  is  to  be  seen.  There  is  a  great 
difference  between  travelling  for  health  and  mere  pleasure. 
Almost  all  our  friends  will  be  on  the  wing  before  us,  but  I 
trust  we  shall  find  our  way  home  in  good  time,  and  be  the 
better  for  having  come.  Mr.  Ware's  is  just  such  an  uncer- 
tain case,  that  it  is  impossible  to  have  any  very  decided 
opinion  about  it,  —  he  sometimes  seeming  almost  as  well 
as  ever,  then  again  prostrated  by  some  very  trifle.  On  the 
whole,  there  is  still  much  to  hope  from  time  and  care,  but 
nothing  to  flatter  one  into  the  hope  of  speedy  restoration. 
May  we  have  patience  to  wait  with  cheerfulness  the  full 
development  of  the  designs  of  Heaven  with  regard  to  usy 
hoping  for  good,  and  willing  to  submit  to  trial ! 

"  This  is  the  season  of  Lent,  which  makes  no  apparent: 
change  in  the  state  of  things,  and  before  we  leave  Rome, 
we  shall  have  the  famous  solemnities  of  Holy  Week,  when, 
if  the  Pope  does  not  die  (which  it  is  reported  he  is  about 
doing),  I  hope  to  witness  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's,  and 
to  listen  to  the  Miserere.  So  far,  I  have  not  heard  any 
music  in  Italy  which  satisfied  me,  except  once  the  vespers 
of  the  nuns  in  one  of  the  churches  here ;  it  is  all  too  loud, 
rapid,  and  theatrical.  But  it  is  time  to  despatch  my  letter, 
so  good  by. 

"  Yours,  most  affectionately, 

"  M.  L.  Ware." 

The  last  date  of  the  above  letter  is  the  2d  of' 
March;    and   before  the  close  of  that  iiionth'  Mrs. ■ 


22b  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

Ware's  second  child  was  born,  —  a  daughter,  who 
still  lives.  Mr.  Ware's  letter,  announcing  the  event 
to  his  brother  in  Boston,  expresses  his  gratitude  for 
the  many  mercies  that  surrounded  them,  among  ex- 
c^ellent  friends,  making  "  as  pretty  a  little,  quiet  do- 
mestic circle  as  ever  Rome  has  seen  since  the  days 
of  the  twin  founders."  At  the  same  time,  he  con- 
fesses his  entire  discouragement  in  regard  to  his  own 
health,  and  their  great  embarrassment  at  what  course 
to  pursue.  "  I  am  weary  of  this  miserably  idle  life, 
and  yet  I  am  fit  for  no  other.  I  am  afraid  to  go 
home,  because  I  know  I  shall  only  be  able  to  do  half 
the  requisite  work,  and  to  do  that  not  more  than 
half ;  yet  to  stay  away  is  altogether  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." As  usual,  Mary  was  ready  to  do  any  thing 
that  seemed  best,  even  to  go  home  alone  with  her 
new  charge,  if  her  husband  would  be  benefited  by 
remaining  longer  and  acting  freely.  Some  prompt 
and  decided  course  she  advised,  at  whatever  sacri- 
fice. "  We  have  talked  over  this  matter  together, 
and  the  only  relief  which  Mary  is  able  to  suggest 
is,  that  I  should  state  my  case  exactly,  resign  the 
professorship,  so  as  not  to  be  a  burden  or  hindrance 
to  those  for  whom  I  care  more  than  for  myself,  send 
her  home  from  Havre,  and  spend  a  year  in  travelling 
Europe  on  foot  and  on  horseback.  This  might  be 
done  at  a  very  small  expense,  an  expense  which  we 
could  meet  without  taxing  College  or  friends." 

We  can  easily  conceive  of  the  anxiety  of  a  high- 
minded  woman,  a  devoted  wife  and  mother,  at  such 
a  crisis.  We  have  said  that  Mrs.  Ware  has  been 
known  to  refer  to  this  experience  as  the  great  trial 


1 


EUROPEAN    TOUR. 


229 


of  her  life,  and  we  suppose  the  period  of  whic-h  we 
are  speaking  was  the  most  trying  of  all ;  especially 
if  we  comprise  in  it  the  few  months  that  preceded  the 
birth  of  her  child,  —  a  season  of  which  she  has  writ- 
ten more  freely  than  of  any  other  of  her  trials.  Nor 
can  we  show  the  full  power  of  her  endurance  at  that 
time,  and  her  wonderful  energy, —  such  as  is  common 
only  to  woman, —  unless  by  giving  part  of  a  letter 
written  to  her  physician,  describing  this  experience. 

"  Not  for  a  single  day  free  from  positive  pain, 
I  felt  determined  to  keep  out  of  sight  all  physi- 
cal as  well  as  mental  distress.  In  this  I  believe  I 
succeeded,  excepting  when  occasionally  nature  was 
overpowered,  and  I  lost  for  a  time  my  conscious- 
ness. But  the  effort  to  keep  a  cheerful  outside, 
when  the  body  was  undergoing  so  great  suffering, 
and  the  mind  fully  awake  to  all  the  uncertainties 
and  possibilities  which  lay  before  us,  can  only  be 
appreciated  or  known  by  one  similarly  situated. 
My  faith  never  failed  me,  nor  my  confidence  that 
the  course  I  had  adopted  was  the  right  one.  But 
the  degree  of  tension  to  which  every  faculty  was 
stretched,  all  the  time,  was  just  as  much  as  my  rea- 
son could  bear  unshaken ;  and  more  than  it  could 
have  borne,  I  believe,  had  not  my  nerves  found  relief 
in  hours  of  tearful  prostration,  when  Henry  was 
asleep,  .or  so  far  out  of  the  way  as  not  to  detect  it." 

We  have  no  further  particulars  to  give  of  the 
sojourn  in  Rome.  The  travellers  gladly  turned  their 
faces  toward  home  the  moment  the  season  and  their 
strength  would  permit.  Early  in  May  we  hear  of 
them  in  Geneva,  and  at  the  end  of  that  month  in 
20 


230  EUROPEAN    TOUft. 

Paris.  From  both  those  places  Mr.  Ware  writes 
home,  in  a  disheartened,  yet  decided  tone,  as  to  his 
return,  showing  what  a  burden  of  anxiety  they  were 
still  bearing.  "  1  have  only  spoken  out  more  plainly 
what  has  for  some  time  been  my  conviction,  that  1 
am  gaining  nothing ;  and  I  simply  wish  to  have  you 
prepared  for  a  proper  reception  of  my  miserability 
when  I  shall  return."  "  I  am  sure  I  need  not  stay 
away ;  I  am  sure  I  am  not  fit  to  do  any  hard  work  ; 
1  do  not  think  I  could  edit  the  Examiner.  But  I 
will  come  home  by  the  packet  of  July  20th,  and  you 
shall  judge.  It  will  be  the  hardest  of  ail  I  have  yet 
done,  to  abstain  from  Cambridge,  especially  as  Mr. 
Norton  vacates  his  place,  and  there  is  the  more  need 
of  other  laborers." 

In  June,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ware  were  separated  for  a 
time,  she  taking  lodgings  with  her  infant  at  Wal- 
tham  Abbey,  and  he  making  an  excursion  alone  for 
his  health.  Soon  after  he  left  her,  Mary  wrote  to 
him  thus:  —  "I  am  quite  sure  it  was  best  for  you 
to  go,  though  there  was  some  risk  in  it.  If  you 
only  keep  a  sharp  watch  upon  your  '  excitables,' 
not  mistaking  the  effect  of  them  for  strength,  and 
so  do  not  overdo,  you  will,  I  doubt  not,  be  better  for 
the  jaunt;  you  will  be  gaining  much  mental  satis- 
faction, and  I  am  sure  that  will  help  the  body 

Yours  to  '  Miss  Pickard '  is  just  received?  The 
dear  little  Miss  is  as  good  as  possible;  she  knows 
how  much  I  wish  I  were  with  you,  and  coos  and 
smiles  all  the  time  to  make  me  contented.  I  am 
thankful  you  are  so  well,  and  though  I  should  have 
richl)    enjoyed    being   with    you,    I    am    sure    it   is 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  231 

better  for  you  to  be  alone.  I  want  to  go  to  Chat- 
ham next  week,  if  I  feel  better,  but  it  is  such  a 
luxury  to  be  at  rest !  O,  dearest,  how  we  shall 
enjoy  it!  I  have  had  time  to  think  a  little,  and 
collect  my  scattered  wits,  and  I  could  pour  out  vol- 
umes of  the  result  of  my  cogitations  —  but  voUa  I 
the  end  of  my  paper !  Do  all  you  can,  see  all  you 
can  without  injury,  gain  all  that  is  possible  to  gain, 
and  above  all,  feel  that  you  have  time  enough  ;  that 
is,  don't  feel  '  hurried  ' ;  it  is  destructive  to  comfort 
and  profit." 

In  this  letter  we  find  also  a  hint,  which  tells 
something  of  Mary's  continued  thoughtfulness  and 
generous  provision  for  that  poor  old  aunt  whom  she 
left  at  Osmotherly  five  years  before.  On  first  arriv- 
ing in  England,  she  had  again  visited,  with  her  hus- 
oand,  that  scene  of  singular  interest  and  mingled 
recollections.  And  now  that  Mr.  Ware  is  journey- 
ing alone  in  that  direction,  she  writes  to  him : 
"  Should  you  go  to  Osmotherly  (which  is  not  quite 
worth  while,  as  it  would  take  you  two  days),  gives 
Aunty  her  yearly  allowance,  if  you  can,  —  ten 
pounds.  But  no,  I  remember  you  did  not  take 
enough  with  you.  Write  her  a  word,  —  it  will 
please  her  ;  and  pay  the  postage."  This  was  said 
at  the  very  time  that  Mrs.  Ware  had  denied  herself 
the  pleasure  of  going  with  her  husband,  on  account 
of  the  added  expense  of  travelling  with  an  infant. 
She  continued  that  annuity  to  her  aunt  as  long  as 
she  lived,  and  a  friend  thinks  it  was  doubled  part 
of  the  time.  We  bring  the  fact  to  notice,  because, 
from  a  delicacy  which   ought  not,  perhaps,  to  sup- 


232  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

press  facts  so  illustrative  of  character,  we  have  for- 
borne to  give  half  the  proof  we  found,  in  letters  and 
in  conversation  with  friends,  of  her  noble  generosity 
in  connection  with  the  strictest  domestic  economy, 
and  withal  a  personal  self-denial  and  simplicity  that 
caused  remark,  if  not  censure.  Could  all  the  facts 
be  given  of  her  early  surrender  of  property  to  a 
considerable  amount,  when  she  might  have  held  it, 
and  the  rigid  restriction  of  her  personal  expenditure, 
through  life,  within  the  limits  of  bare  comfort  and 
respectability,  while  there  were  times  when  she  could 
have  done  much  more  for  herself,  and  no  time  when 
her  hospitalities  were  not  without  stint,  —  were  it 
right,  or  were  it  desirable,  to  refer  to  facts  and  in- 
stances confirming  this  general  statement,  —  we  are 
sure  it  would  be  seen  to  be  at  the  least  worthy  ot 
honor  and  imitation.  But  the  very  thought  of  her 
disinterestedness,  and  secret  charities,  checks  and  re- 
bukes us. 

Before  leaving  England,  she  wrote  the  following 
letter  to  the  two  children  in  America. 

"  Waltham  Abbey,  June  19,  1830. 
"  My  dear  Children  :  — 
"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  wrote  to  either  of  you,  for  I 
was  ill  for  some  weeks,  and  since  I  got  well,  I  have  been 
travelling  almost  every  day,  and  have  not  had  time  to  sit 
down  quietly.  But  all  this  while  I  have  thought  much  of 
yoL,  particularly  when  I  was  lying  on  the  bod  sick.  When 
I  remembered  how  great  was  the  distance  which  separated 
us  from  you,  and  how  uncertain  it  was  if  we  ever  saw  you 
again,  I  wished  that  I  could  be  sure  that  you  would  always 
be  good,  doing  that  which  would  please  God,  that  J  might 


EUROPEAN    TOUR.  233 

hope  to  be  united  to  you  again  in  heaven.  You  do  not 
know  how  often  your  father  and  I  have  talked  about  you 
since  we  left  you,  or  how  anxious  we  have  felt  that  you 
should  improve  ;  we  hope  to  find  that  you  have  made  a 
good  use  of  the  time  of  our  absence,  if  we  are  ever  per- 
riitted  to  see  our  home  again ;  and  how  happy  we  shall  be 
to  have  you  with  us,  not  to  be  separated  again,  I  trust,  for 
a  long  time  ! 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  your  dear  father  is  better 
than  when  he  left  home.  He  has  gone  now  to  Manchester 
for  a  few  days,  and  I  have  come  with  little  Baby  from  Lon- 
don to  stay  with  a  cousin  while  he  is  absent.  Baby  will 
have  been  a  great  traveller  by  the  time  she  gets  home,  but 
she  will  not  be  any  the  wiser  for  it ;  when  she  knows  how 
many  wonderful  things  she  has  passed  by,  she  will  wish 
she  had  been  old  enough  to  observe  them.  I  have  seen  a 
great  many  grown-up  people  in  our  travels,  who,  I  think, 
will  not  know  much  more  than  she  does  of  what  they  have 
passed  by,  because  they  have  not  the  habit  of  observing 
and  thinking  about  what  they  see  ;  they  remind  me  of  the 
story  in  '  Evenings  at  Home,'  entitled  '  Eyes  and  no 
Eyes.'  I  dare  say  you  recollect  it.  Others  are  not  wiser 
for  their  travels,  because  they  have  not  prepared  themselves 
to  understand  what  they  see,  by  reading  ;  they  care  nothing 
about  the  antiquities  of  a  country,  because  they  know  noth- 
ing about  its  history  ;  or  the  works  of  art  which  they  meet 
with,  because  they  do  not  know  how  they  are  made,  or 
their  uses.  You  will  be  surprised  to  find,  as  you  grow  older 
and  know  more,  how  much  every  thing  which  you  have 
learned  will  add  to  your  pleasure.  I  dare  say  you  have 
many  lessons  given  you,  of  which  you  do  not  see  the  use 
at  present,  but  you  will  by  and  by,  and  if  you  fix  them 
well  in  your  memory  you  will  be  very  glad  then. 

"  It  is  now  the  26th  of  June,  and  we  have  just  heard  that 
20* 


234  EUROPEAN  TOUR. 

the  king  of  England  died  this  morning,  and  his  brother,  the 
Duke  of  Clarence,  was  proclaimed  king,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
at  Westminster.  On  Monday  he  will  be  proclaimed  at 
three  places  in  London,  by  heralds  dressed  in  very  gay  cos- 
tume, such  as  has  always  been  worn  on  like  occasions  for 
many  centuries,  of  course  very  different  from  modern 
dresses.  They  will  use  trumpets  in  order  to  be  heard  by 
as  many  people  as  possible^  who  will  no  doubt  collect  in 
great  crowds  to  hear  them.  The  new  king  is  called  William 
the  Fourth.  There  will  be  a  great  parade  at  the  king's 
funeral,  and  the  new  king's  coronation,  but  we  shall  not 
see  either.  I  hope  we  shall  be  on  tiio  water  before  they 
take  place,  for  the  preparations  are  to  ',/?  go  great,  that  it 
is  said  three  weeks  at  least  will  be  necessary  for  the  fu- 
neral, and  perhaps  months  for  the  coronation.  The  next 
heir  to  the  crown  is  a  little  girl,  only  a  year  older  than  you, 
Elizabeth. 

"  Good  by,  my  dear  children. 

"  Your  loving  Mother." 

On  the  passage  home,  in  August,  Mrs.  Ware  had 
another  severe  trial  of  her  physical  and  mental  ener- 
gies, —  a  trial  that  is  supposed  to  have  essentially 
impaired  the  vigor  of  a  remarkably  strong  and  en- 
during frame.  Mr.  Ware,  who  had  gained  little  if 
any  strength  during  their  whole  absence,  became 
severely  ill  from  a  painful  and  alarming  attack  of 
acute  disease.  His  wife  was  his  only  nurse,  and,  if 
we  recollect  "right,  the  only  physician.  And  there, 
amid  all  the  deprivations  and  discomforts  of  the  sea, 
confined  to  the  narrow  range  of  a  small  state-room, 
carrying  in  her  arms  a  restless  infant,  of  which  those 
most  willing  could  but  seldom  relieve  her,  and  with 


EUROPEAN    TOUR. 


235 


the  whole  weight  of  the  responsibility  upon  her  sad- 
dened heart,  that  wife  and  mother  performed  offices 
and  made  exertions,  which,  by  some  acquainted 
with  all  the  circumstances,  have  been  called  "  almost 
superhuman."  One  fearful  night  especially,  the  night 
which  was  to  determine  the  result,  she  watched 
over  the  flickering  and  apparently  expiring  light 
of  the  life  most  dear  to  her,  in  anxious  and  most 
arduous  services,  until  the  crisis  had  passed.  Her 
husband  recovered  from  this  attack  almost  entirely, 
before  the  end  of  the  voyage ;  but  the  effect  upon 
herself,  of  all  she  had  done  and  endured  in  the  last 
seventeen  months,  was  a  prostrating  and  protracted 
sickness  soon  after  her  return.  Up  to  this  time,  we 
suppose  Mrs.  Ware  to  have  possessed  a  power  of 
action  and  endurance  seldom  equalled  in  her  own 
sex  or  in  the  same  walk  of  life.  Yet  she  used  to 
say  that  her  natural  temperament  was  sluggish 
rather  than  active,  and  that  her  activity  was  an  ex- 
ertion. Recurring,  some  years  later,  to  this  same 
season,  she  writes :  "  You  do  not  know  me  as  well 
as  you  might,  or  you  would  not  talk  of  my  activily. 
Naturally  I  am  essentially  indolent;  and  to  this 
day  no  one  knows  the  effort  it  often  costs  me  to 
rouse  myself  from  my  lethargy.  Still  1  have  had  a 
pride  in  my  physical  ability,  which  has  sometimes 
impelled  me  when  better  motives  ought  to  have  op- 
erated. But  that  pride  had  a  fall,  when  I  went  to 
Europe  with  Mr.  Ware,  from  which,  it  seems  to  me, 
it  can  never  rise  again.  Yet  it  may  influence  me 
when  I  do  not  suspect  it,  and  I  shall  look  out  sharp 
for  it." 


236  EUROPEAN    TOUR. 

It  was  in  this  connection  also  that  Mrs.  Ware 
repelled  the  idea  of  "  sacrifice "  in  such  relations. 
"  The  phrase  *  sacrifice  for  those  we  love,'  I  do  not 
quite  understand.  I  should  think  the  thing  intended 
was  more  nearly  allied  to  the  germ  of  selfish  gratifi- 
cation, and  therefore  as  little  entitled  to  the  appel- 
lation of  a  virtue  as  any  other  selfish  propensity." 
Just  before  leaving  America  for  this  European  tour, 
when  not  strong  herself,  she  had  written  to  her  hus- 
band, "  I  am  very  much  afraid  of  becoming  too 
thoughtful  of  this  poor  body  of  mine."  And  now, 
on  her  return,  she  was  compelled  to  think  of  it  more 
than  ever  before. 


X. 

LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

Mr.  "Ware's  connection  with  his  parish  in  Boston 
had  been  continued,  at  the  earnest  request  of  the 
people,  in  the  hope,  that,  if  he  removed  to  Cam- 
bridge, he  might  still  retain  the  pastoral  office,  and 
perform  such  of  the  duties  as  should  be  perfectly 
easy.  A  connection  which  had  existed  thirteen 
years,  in  perfect  harmony  and  mutual  attachment, 
could  not  be  sundered  without  mutual  pain.  To  iio 
man  living  did  permanence  in  the  pastoral  office 
seem  more  desirable  or  more  important  than  to 
Henry  Ware ;  and  the  time  had  not  then  quite  come 
when  pastor  and  people  could  separate  in  a  day, 
with  or  without  cause.  Nor  could  Mrs.  Ware  be 
indifferent  to  such  a  change.  It  was  the  extin- 
guishment of  many  hopes  which  she  had  fondly 
cherished,  in  becoming  the  wife  of  one  whose  ear- 
liest choice  and  highest  ambition  had  been  for  the 
ministry  and  a  parish  life,  —  a  life  which  had  attrac- 
tions hardly  less  strong  for  herself  But  now  they 
had  no  choice.  Whatever  the  sacrifice  required, 
neither  of  them  was  willing  to  remain  in  an  office, 
whose  duties  they  could  not  perform  with  vigor  and 
entire  devotion.  A  dissolution  of  the  connection 
was  therefore  asked,  immediately  after  their  return 


238  LIFE    IN    CAMDRIDGE. 

from  Europe.  And  the  society,  in  yielding  to  the 
obvious  duty  of  granting  the  request,  expressed  ear- 
nestly their  sense  of  obligation  and  gratitude,  not 
only  to  their  pastor,  but  also  to  her  who  had  been 
his  co-laborer  in  their  service.  In  their  final  letter, 
they  say :  "  We  should  do  injustice  to  our  feelings 
if  we  failed,  on  this  occasion,  to  make  mention  of  her 
also,  who  has  laid  us  under  such  obligations  by  her 
devotedness  to  you  when  we  looked  upon  you  as 
belonging  to  ourselves,  and  who,  though  not  long 
\\dth  us,  had  already  taught  us  how  highly  to  value 
and  how  deeply  to  regret  her." 

In  October,  1830,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ware  took  up 
their  abode  in  Cambridge  ;  where  he  entered  at  once, 
in  improved,  but  still  feeble  health,  upon  the  duties 
of  the  new  Professorship  of  "  Pulpit  Eloquence  and 
Pastoral  Care."  And  except  the  place  which  they 
had  been  compelled  to  resign,  for  which  they  both 
retained,  we  think,  as  long  as  they  lived,  a  strong 
preference  and  lingering  desire,  no  situation  could 
have  been  found  more  acceptable  than  this  at  Cam- 
bridge. A  post  of  great  responsibility,  calling  for  all 
the  strength  and  labor  that  any  could  bestow,  it  was 
yet  a  position  of  peculiar  privilege  and  opportunity, 
in  the  midst  of  family  connections,  near  to  all  their 
friends,  and  having  close  relations  to  the  ministry 
which  they  so  loved.  In  many  ways,  too,  would 
these  relations  afford  to  Mrs.  Ware  herself  facilities 
for  action,  and  the  exercise  of  her  peculiar  powers 
and  affections. 

Yet  there  were  two  great  anxieties  which  Mrs. 
Ware  brought  to  this  new  situation  ;   one,  relating 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  23'J 

to  the  health  of  her  husband ;  the  other,  to  their 
straitened  pecuniary  means.  The  first  of  these  was 
known,  and  could  be  understood  by  all.  The  last 
will  never  be  understood,  except  by  those  similarly 
situated,  and  as  high-minded,  generous,  and  desirous 
of  usefulness.  We  speak  of  this  as  a  general  truth. 
There  is  more  mental  suffering,  more  physical  feeble- 
ness, and  greater  loss  to  the  community  in  regard  to 
the  energy  and  activity  of  those  who  would  serve  it, 
resulting  from  this  one  cause,  than  perhaps  from  any 
other.  We  say  it  in  no  temper  of  complaint,  much 
less  of  censure ;  for  we  know  not  where  the  fault  lies, 
if  there  be  any.  But  we  do  know  the  fact,  and  there 
can  be  few  who  have  not  seen  it  in  some  of  every 
calling,  —  that  the  necessity  of  incessant  thought- 
fulness  and  extreme  carefulness  for  the  things  of  this 
world,  with  the  dread  of  debt  or  dependence  of 
any  kind,  in  the  midst,  too,  of  sickness  and  the  ut- 
most uncertainty,  is  a  weight  upon  the  heart,  and  an 
obstacle  to  the  energies,  such  as  no  faith,  or  forti- 
tude, or  philosophy  can  wholly  overcome;  no,  nor 
even  the  experience,  as  in  this  instance,  of  ceaseless 
kindness,  and  a  liberality  ready  to  do  all  that  delica- 
cy would  permit.  The  fact  remains,  —  better  known 
than  explained,  and  inseparable,  it  may  be,  from  the 
constitution  of  society,  possibly  from  the  nature  of 
man,  —  aggravated,  as  the  trial  often  is,  by  the  in- 
firmity and  helplessness  which  God  himself  appoints. 
The  beginning  of  their  life  in  Cambridge  was 
made  memorable  by  one  of  the  longest  and  most  se- 
rious sicknesses  that  Mrs.  Ware  had  ever  known.  We 
have  already  referred  to  it,  as  probably  caused  by  the 


240  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

uncommon  demands  of  their  journey  abroad  and  the 
voyage  home.  We  did  not  refer,  in  its  place,  to  a 
severe  IJhiess  which  she  had  in  Geneva,  of  which  she 
gives  an  account  in  a  note  some  years  later,  and 
speaks  of  it  as  very  serious.  Many  causes  thus 
conspired  to  predispose  her  to  this  attack,  which,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  so  far  as  we  know,  was  of  a 
pulmonary  character,  and  shut  her  up  for  the  whole 
winter,  —  a  severe  trial,  where  so  much  was  waiting 
to  be  done,  and  after  so  long  a  period  of  absence 
from  home  and  active  duty.  There  was  greater  pros- 
tration, and  more  imminent  peril,  than  all  were  aware 
of,  and  more,  we  suppose,  than  ever  before.  Her 
sickness  must  have  begun  almost  immediately  after 
they  went  to  Cambridge;  for  in  the  same  month 
Mr.  "Ware  writes  to  Rev.  Mr.  Allen  of  Northborough, 
as  if  he  had  for  some  time  been  very  anxious,  and  was 
then  only  beginning  to  hope.  "  I  am  happy  to  be 
able  to  say,  that  Mary  does  seem  to  be  doing  better, 
—  the  first  day  that  1  have  thought  so.  Her  disor- 
der has  had  transient  intermissions,  but  never  be- 
fore seemed  to  yield.  I  think  now  she  has  fairly 
begun  to  mend.  But  she  is  wretchedly  weak,  and  a 
little  talking  makes  her  hoarse.  We  have  kept  her 
as  quiet  as  possible,  and  forbidden  all  visitors ;  yet 
she  has  not  been  as  quiet  as  most  persons,  because 
she  does  not  know  how  to  take  thought  for  herself, 
and  continues  her  interest  for  all  about  her.  She 
has  suffered  a  great  deal  of  severe  pain,  and  her 
cough  has  been  kept  from  distressing  her  only  by 
opiates.  You  rightly  guess  how  great  a  disappoint- 
ment of  our  hopes  this  has  been.     I  have  not  been 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDCK.  S4i 

without  very  serious  apprehensions  as  to  the  result, 
and  you  may  judge  what  must  be  felt,  when  we  are 
apprehensive  for  one  so  perfectly  invaluable  as  she. 
You  know  her  in  part,  but  one  must  know  her  inti- 
mately as  I  do,  to  understand  half  her  worth."  And, 
again,  as  late  as  November,  Mr.  Ware  writes  to  Miss 
Forbes  that  Mary  is  not  yet  able  to  bear  any  visitor, 
not  even  one  as  intimate  as  she,  whose  society  and 
sympathy  they  so  much  desired.  And  he  adds,  in 
concluding  his  letter  to  that  excellent  friend,  "  Em- 
ma," whom  they  had  not  seen  since  their  return  from 
Europe:  "  Since  we  met,  we  have  all  seen  changes 
and  trials,  and  are  at  least  more  experienced  in  the 
discipline  of  Providence.  I  esteem  myself  quite 
well ;  and  if  my  cup  were  not  dashed  with  the  bit- 
terness of  Mary's  ill  health,  I  should  have  more 
sources  of  happiness  than  I  could  perhaps  bear 
rightly." 

In    a    few   weeks,    Miss    F went    to    Mrs. 

Ware,  and  devoted  herself  entirely  to  the  care  of 
her  for  two  months  or  more.  The  communion  of 
these  congenial  minds  was  very  beautiful,  and  will 
help  at  various  points  to  illustrate  the  character  of 
Mary.  Their  intimacy  began  early,  and  was  never 
interrupted.  How  true  they  were  to  each  other, 
how  socially  and  spiritually  confiding,  how  much 
they  mutually  imparted  and  received,  through  life 
and  in  death,  can  be  known  only  to  those  who  know 
all ;  for  both  their  natures,  even  in  their  present  ex- 
altation, might  shrink  from  the  disclosure  of  some 
ol  the  evidences  of  their  tender  and  generous  love. 
Their  intercourse  at  this  time,  softened  by  the  sick- 
21 


242  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

ness  from  which  Mary  was  very  slowly  rising,  and 
which,  we  have  seen,  awakened  many  apprehensions, 
must  have  been  peculiarly  grateful.  It  was  a  season 
of  precious  experience  to  Mrs.  Ware,  as  will  be  seen 
in  the  first  letter  she  wrote, —  her  faithful  annual 
to  the  friend  in  Worcester. 

"  Cambridge,  December  31,  1830. 
"  Another  year  has  passed  away,  dearest  Nancy,  since  I 
last  spread  before  me  a  fair  white  page,  on  which  to  tell 
you  that  I  was  still  in  existence ;  and  instead  of  '  St.  Aga- 
tha' and  the  disagreeables  belonging  to  it,  behold  me  in 
my  own  blessed  home,  scribbling  at  the  same  old  desk.  A 
change,  indeed,  and  what  a  change,  for  one  short  year  ! 
You  know  it  all,  and  I  need  not,  if  I  could,  recount  the 
various  causes  for  deep,  fervent  gratitude  which  rise  to  my 
memory  in  the  retrospect.  You  can  understand,  without 
explanation,  why  it  is  that  the  thought  of  them  so  entirely 
overwhelms  me  that  I  cannot  touch  upon  them  with  suffi- 
cient calmness  even  to  write  about  them.  I  shall  be  less 
tired  to-morrow  morning,  and  will  resume  ;  but  I  could  not 
let  this  eve,  so  long  sacred  to  you,  pass  without  marking  it. 
Farewell,  then,  for  this  time. 

"  January  16.  I  have  suffered  a  longer  period  to  pass 
away  without  continuing  this  than  I  intended.  I  know  not 
how  it  is,  but  I  find  that  year  after  year  passes  off,  and 
still  the  same  errors  are  to  be  mourned  over  ;  and  for  one 
I  begin  to  fear  that  the  habit  of  procrastination  will  adhere 
to  me  through  life.  I  was  weak,  and  my  nerves  so  excit- 
able, when  1  began  this,  that  I  could  not  even  recur  in 
thought  to  the  events  of  the  past  year,  and  retain  decent 
composure.  But  the  impression  of  their  review  has  not 
passed  away,  and  1  trust  never  will ;  and  I  feel  that  it  would 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  24«1 

do  my  heart  good  to  go  over  the  ground  with  you  (were  you 
only  by  my  side),  not  of  their  external  character,  that  you 
know  already,  but  of  the  effect  of  such  discipline  upon  the 
mind.  Constant  exposure  to  the  weather  hardens  the  skin, 
and  the  habit  of  living  under  circumstances  of  trial  deadens 
one's  sensibilities  ;  and  I  could  not  now,  if  I  would,  be  as 
strongly  affected  by  them  as  I  used  to  he  during  my  no- 
viti?.te.  Still,  I  have  not  quite  ceased  to  feel,  and  conse- 
quently to  suffer  and  to  enjoy  ;  and  I  trust  that  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  past  year  have  not  been  experienced  without 
some  beneficial  result. 

"  I  have  long  thought  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  of  my 
life  to  be  that  singular  preparation  which  each  event  has 
given  me  for  that  which  was  to  succeed  it ;  and  I  never  re- 
alized this  so  fully  as  during  my  late  wanderings.  Habit 
had  given  me  the  power  of  sustaining  easily  and  cheerfully 
circumstances  which,  to  one  less  experienced,  would  have 
brought  labor  and  sorrow ;  thus  enabling  me  to  pursue  the 
one  great  object  for  which  we  were  striving,  unclogged  (if  I 
may  so  say)  by  any  considerations  for  self,  and  thus  lessen- 
ing my  trials,  not  only  to  myself,  but  to  those  around  me. 
Now  that  all  is  over,  I  am  conscious  that  the  mental  as  well 
as  the  physical  effort  has  been  great ;  and  I  consider  this 
'  lying  by '  as  advantageous  to  my  mind  as  to  my  body. 
I  was  beginning  wrong,  had  for  some  time  felt  that  trifles 
were  a  burden  to  me  ;  and  although  by  the  application  of 
strong  stimulants,  such  as  the  joy  of  getting  home,  I  could 
keep  alive  my  courage  to  act,  I  am  persuaded  that  it  was 
something  of  the  excitement  which  frequently  precedes 
entire  failure,  rather  than  any  substantial  good.  In  the  de- 
lightful quiet  of  my  own  snug  chamber,  1  have  had  time  to 
look  a  little  more  into  myself  than  I  have  been  able  to  do 
for  a  long,  long  time.  The  outward  exigencies  of  the  mo- 
ment had  so  long  occupied  every  faculty,  that  it  was  not 


244  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

singular  that  I  had  become  almost  a  stranger  to  that  void 
within,  which  is  to  be  known  only  in  the  '  secret  silence ' 
of  tranquil  thought.  I  have  felt  grateful  for  this  repose  ; 
and,  so  far  from  pitying  me  for  having  been  arrested  in  the 
pursuit  of  my  domestic  duties,  just  as  I  was  so  happily  re- 
stored to  them,  my  friends  would  rejoice  for  me,  if  they 
knew  how  much  I  needed,  and  how  much  I  have  enjoyed, 
this  rest.  Don't  think  me  quite  insensible  to  the  trouble 
it  has  caused  my  friends,  or  the  loss  it  has  been  to  my 
husband's  comfort.  I  am  not ;  but  neither  am  I  sure  that 
in  the  end  both  will  not  be  gainers  by  it.  I  have  not  been 
very  sick,  —  not  so  sick  as  to  require  a  suspension  of  any 
of  the  daily  operations  of  the  household  in  my  behalf.  I 
could  always  have  my  children  about  me,  and  except  now 
and  then  could  do  very  well  without  any  aid  out  of  my 
family.  I  needed  rest  and  quiet  more  than  any  thing  ; 
and  that  did  not  interfere  with  others'  pursuits.  Emma 
has  been  with  me  six  weeks;  and  enacted  Mrs.  Gerry, 
Queen's  jester,  Cerberus,  and  a  '  thorn  in  the  flesh,'  as  she 
styles  herself,  with  the  perfection  that  belongs  to  such  an 
actress.  She  has  been  a  real  comfort  and  delight  to  us 
both  ;  for  she  has  the  faculty  of  fitting  in  so  exactly  to  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  that  she  does  more  good  than 
she  intends  to  do,  good  as  her  intentions  are. 

But  Emma  says,  '  Hold  !  enough  ! '  I  forget  which  of 
her  characters  she  appears  under  now;  but  I'll  jjunish  her 
by  making  her  fill  this  page  with  the  bulletin  of  health  of 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  belonging  to  the  establish- 
ment, which  I  was  just  going  to  give  you  myself. 

"  Mary." 

In  February,  we  find  Mrs.  Ware  still  a  prisoner 
in  that  chamber  of  sickness  ;  though  not  exactly  a 
prisoner,  for  we  have  heard  her  speak  of  the  reluc- 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  245 

tance  with  which  she  left  that  long  confinement,  to 
return  to  the  glare  and  tumult  of  the  world.  A.nd 
from  the  manner  in  which  she  wrote  to  Emma,  soon 
after  she  had  left  her,  it  would  seem  that  she  had  not 
expected  to  return  at  all.  Indeed,  some  of  her  lan- 
guage indicates  a  serious  apprehension  on  her  part, 
of  which  few  were  aware.  In  refusing  to  let  Emma 
come  again  merely  to  read  to  her,  as  she  had  pro- 
posed, Mary  says :  "  I  allow  that  it  would  be  an 
especial  comfort  to  be  read  to  sleep  sometimes, 
when  my  opium-fed  imagination  is  conjuring  up 
fancies  that  mar  my  rest  for  that  night ;  and  it 
would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  have  my  thoughts  a 
little  more  diverted  from  self  than  I  can  divert  them 
unaided.  If  my  disease  were  rapidly  gaining  ground, 
the  case  would  be  altered.  I  know  too  well  the  lux- 
ury of  having  done  'the  last'  for  a  friend,  to  debar 
any  one  from  it.  But  although  I  am  aware  that 
there  are  many  probabilities  in  favor  of  the  idea  that 
the  disease  never  will  be  overcome,  I  see  no  reason 
to  nourish  the  feeling  which  a  state  of  uncertainty 
cannot  but  create.  It  may  be  that  my  days  are  to 
be  few.  And  if  the  '  wearin'  awa  of  snow-wreaths 
in  the  thaw '  is  to  be  the  signal  of  like  decay  in  my- 
self, I  shall  surely  need  you  more  than  now.  At  all 
events,  the  spring  must  be  a  season  of  lassitude  and 
bodily  trial  to  me  ;  and  if  you  will  give  me  the 
promised  visit  then,  you  will  have  no  reason  to  be< 
dissatisfied  with  the  degree  of  good  you  will  do  me." 
Two  months  later  than  this,  Mrs.  Ware  wrote  to  the 
same  friend,  more  at  length. 
21* 


M6  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

"  Cambridge,  April  20,  1831. 
"  Dear  Emma  :  — 

"  I  have  watched  you  from  my  working-chair  '  out  of 
sight,'  as  some  of  my  Dublin  friends  would  say ;  and  now 
I  have  taken  my  desk  into  my  lap  for  sundry  purposes,  but 
the  first  that  suggests  itself  is,  to  commence  an  ovinium 
gatherum  for  you.  I  shall  want  to  say  five  hundred  things 
at  least  every  day  for  a  month  to  come  ;  and  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  not  indulge  you  with  one  of  the  five  hundred 
daily.  What  time  so  good  to  commence,  as  that  in  which 
my  heart  is  full  of  twice  that  number  of  feelings  of  grati- 
tude and  love  towards  you  }  But  no,  this  is  not  a  good 
time  either,  for  they  come  rushing  forward  with  such  a 
spirit  of  rivalry,  each  wishing  to  be  represented  first,  that 
they  blind  my  eyes  and  make  my  pen  tremble  ;  so  I  will 
leach  them  what  a  good  disciplinarian  I  am,  and  make 
them  all  keep  silence  until  they  have  learned  better  man- 
ners. 

"  To-day  I  am  as  weak  as  possible,  but  free  from  pain. 
The  truth  is,  that  I  am  feeling,  just  as  I  told  you  I  should, 
the  trial  of  weakness  much  more,  now  that  I  can  move 
about,  than  when  I  was  shut  up.  When  I  knew  it  was  my 
part  to  give  up  trying  to  do  any  thing,  and  turn  my  mind 
to  the  improvement  which  belonged  to  such  a  state  of 
things,  I  had  not  a  wish  to  step  over  my  threshold,  or  an 
anxious  thought  about  any  thing  beyond  it.  It  would  be 
time  enough  when  I  could  go  among  people  and  things,  I 
thought,  and  I  would  enjoy  the  luxury  of  idleness  to  the 
full.  I  did ;  but  now  the  case  is  changing.  I  am  able  to 
use  my  bodily  powers,  and  feel  that  I  ought  to  exert  my 
mental  energies  also  ;  but  my  strength  fails  me,  mental 
and  bodily,  and  this  brings  to  me  a  feeling  of  discourage- 
ment and  dissatisfaction  with  myself,  that  I  find  it  hard  to 
struggle  against  as  1  ought.     In  fact,  it  carries  me  back  to 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  247 

old  Mary  Pickard's  spring  feelings  of  nothingness,  which  I 
fight  with  in  vain.  I  fear  that  I  have  been  so  long  indulged 
in  idleness,  that  I  have  lost  my  energy  of  mind,  or  become 
selfish,  and  a  thousand  other  wrong  things  which  do  some- 
times creep  upon  one  without  leave.  You  will  tell  me  this 
is  merely  the  effect,  the  inevitable  effect,  of  weakness,  as 
my  husband  does.  I  hope  it  is,  and  that  I  shall  rise  in  time 
to  my  wished-for  energy. 

"  I  was  glad  to  find  you  had  made  so  good  a  beginning 
of  your  summer  life.  It  is  delightful  to  me  to  be  able  to 
think  of  you  enjoying  so  much,  and  doing  so  much,  as  I 
am  sure  you  will.  I  think  it  was  very  well  to  strike  into 
the  plan  at  once.  May  I  ask  you,  too,  to  take  one  half- 
hour  daily,  with  your  door  locked,  for  some  little  sentence 
and  the  thoughts  which  will  grow  out  of  it,  for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  that  internal  treasure  which  you  value  so  much,  and 
in  which  you  wish  to  feel  more  vital,  exciting  interest.'*  I 
know  by  my  own  experience  that  we  lose  much  of  what  we 
long  to  keep,  by  an  unacknowledged  but  constantly  operat- 
ing contempt  for  small  means,  hourly  attentions  to  the  de- 
tails of  spiritual  discipline.  Having  calmly,  thoroughly, 
may  I  add,  prayerfully,  viewed  one  Christian  virtue  in  the 
day,  are  we  not  almost  secure  of  acting  in  conformity  to 
that  one,  for  at  least  twenty-four  hours  ?  And  if  every 
day  we  thus  gain  one  victory,  shall  we  not  have  reason  to 
hope  we  may  in  time  be  wholly  conquerors  ?  But  more 
of  this  in  our  pretty  book,  which  will  contain  preaching 
enough  for  my  share  of  your  ear  upon  such  matters. 

"  All  send  love,  with  that  of  your 

"  M.  L.  Ware." 

Ill  the  spring,  Mrs.  Ware  recovered,  as  to  all  ap- 
parent disease  ;  but  she  continued  feeble  through  the 
summer,  and  suffered  much  from  her  sense  of  in- 


248  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

efficiency,  in  body  and  mind,  —  "  literally  unable,"  as 
she  says,  "  to  write  a  letter."  Nor  do  we  find  any 
letters  before  October,  when  she  wrote  in  full  her 
own  impressions  of  this  important  portion  of  her  ex- 
})erience,  with  an  account  of  its  termination  in  the 
alarming  illness  of  her  husband,  to  whom  she  was 
summoned  at  a  distance.  His  health  had  been  con- 
stantly improving  through  the  winter,  and  he  ha«l 
performed  all  the  duties  of  his  office,  except  preach- 
ing, which  he  had  ventured  upon  but  once  for  nearly 
three  years,  and  then  only  on  account  of  the  death 
of  Mrs.  Emerson,  the  wife  of  his  colleague  and  suc- 
cessor in  Boston.  In  the  summer  vacation  of  th^ 
present  year,  1831,  Mr.  Ware  made  a  pedestrian 
tour,  with  a  friend,  to  the  White  Hills;  and,  feeling 
strong  enough,  engaged  to  preach  on  his  return  at 
Concord,  N.  H.  But  before  he  could  reach  that 
place,  he  was  prostrated  with  fever,  and  became  se- 
verely, and  he  himself  believed  fatally  ill.  Under 
this  full  conviction,  he  made  a  great  effort  to  write 
a  few  last  words  to  his  wife ;  and  did  write  a  note, 
which  we  wish  we  were  at  liberty  to  use,  so  moving 
as  it  is  in  itself  and  its  circumstances,  so  charac- 
teristic of  him  who  wrote  it,  and  so  touching  and 
beautiful  a  tribute  to  her  whom  he  loved,  and  whom 
he  thought  to  see  no  more  on  earth. 

It  need  not  be  told  that  Mrs.  Ware  went  to  her 
husband  as  soon  as  she  knew  of  his  sickness,  though 
she  had  not  entirely  regained  her  own  strength.  He 
had  been  removed  to  Concord,  where  she  joined  him, 
and  stayed  till  they  could  come  home  together.  She 
seems  not  to  have  been  surprised  by  this  summons ; 


■  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  249 

it  being  one  of  her  principles,  and  a  fixed  habit, 
to  anticipate  all  probable,  even  possible  events,  as 
far  as  she  could,  and  make  them  familiar  to  her 
thoughts ;  not  to  sadden  or  v^^eaken,  but  to  strength- 
en and  prepare  her  mind  for  the  duties  and  emergen- 
cies to  which  she  might  be  called.  If  the  events  did 
not  occur,  nothing  was  lost.  If  they  came,  the 
shock  was  less,  and  there  was  greater  preparation 
and  fortitude  to  encounter  it.  This  is  not  the  com- 
mon course,  and  will  not  commend  itself  to  all.  Not 
all  would  be  capable  of  it ;  and  it  may  not  be  ne- 
cessary or  desirable  for  all.  The  common  habit  is 
the  very  opposite,  and  the  counsel  usually  given, 
from  the  pulpit  and  in  private,  is  to  anticipate  noth- 
ing, —  least  of  all,  to  anticipate  evil ;  or,  as  the 
phrase  is,  never  to  "  borrow  trouble."  This  is  not 
the  place  to  discuss  the  subject.  We  wish  only  to 
record  our  vivid  impression  of  the  delight  and  in- 
struction with  which  we  have  listened  to  that  unpre- 
tending woman,  as  she  argued  the  matter  with  those 
who  differed  with  her ;  not  asking  them  to  do  as  she 
did,  or  assuming  the  smallest  merit  for  the  habit,  but 
only  showing  them  how  completely  the  uniform  ex- 
perience of  a  life  of  trial  had  satisfied  her  that  this 
course  was  best  for  her.  And  all  who  have  seen 
her  in  trial  and  sickness  will  testify  to  the  reality  and 
power  of  this  persuasion. 

The  account,  to  which  we  have  already  adverted 
of  their  experiences  during  this  first  year  at  Cam- 
bridge, through  her  own  illness  and  that  of  her  hus- 
band, is  contained  in  a  letter  written  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  first  Sabbath  that  Mr.  Ware  was  able  to 


250  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.. 

preach  in  the  College  Chapel,  when  she  also  was  able 
to  hear  him. 

"  Cambridge,  October  2,  1831. 

"  My  dear  Nancy  :  — 

"  Were  you  ever  so  weak  as  to  omit  doing  a  thing  which 
you  strongly  desired  to  do,  entirely  because  you  knew  you 
could  not  do  it  thoroughly  to  your  own  satisfaction  ?  If 
you  have  been,  you  can  better  understand  than  I  can  de- 
scribe the  many  foohsh  feelings  which  have,  from  time 
to  time,  and  a  hundred  times,  made  me  throw  down  my 
pen  and  say  to  myself,  '  I  cannot  write  to  her  now ;  I  have 
not  time  to  say  half  I  wish  to  say,  or  she  to  hear.'  It  is 
just  so  now ;  I  knew  all  the  time  it  was  wrong  to  do  so,  and 
now  I  am  determined  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  with  myself^ 
at  the  commencement  of  this  new  year  of  my  life  ;  and  as 
your  spirit  has  haunted  my  conscience  more  than  any 
other,  I  begin  by  laying  it  with  the  spell  of  my  fairy  pen. 
But  where  shall  I  begin  ?  I  cannot  remember  where  I  left 
off,  or  rather  do  not  know  what  you  have  heard  from  others 
since  I  left  you  a  year  ago. 

"  Of  my  winter's  sickness  I  cannot  write  ;  it  contained  a 
long  life  of  enjoyment,  and  what  I  hoped  would  prove  profit- 
able thought  and  reflection.  I  came  out  of  my  nest  almost 
reluctandy,  for  I  had  a  dread  of  the  absorbing  power  of  world- 
ly cares  and  interests;  and  for  a  long  time  my  head  remained 
so  weak  that  I  suffered  from  the  necessity  of  giving  my  whole 
mind  to  the  trifling  occupations  of  daily  life  in  order  to  per- 
form them  with  tolerable  decency.  This  has  been  a  bane 
to  my  comfort  throughout  the  summer ;  and  although  I 
have  had  Harriet  Hall  and  Maiy  Ware,  and  many  of  those 
I  rejoiced  to  see,  again  around  me,  I  have  not  profited  much 
by  the  privilege,  my  mind  having  all  hs  capacity  more 
than  employed  by  the  care  of  our  bodies.  This  was  very 
humiliatiniz  for  one  to  whom  all  the  outward  cares  of  life 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  251 

have  been  mere  play-work ;  but  I  could  contrive  to  keep 
externally  quiet,  and  not  appear  fidgety ;  so  I  try  to  think 
this  was  conquest  enough  for  me  in  my  then  state  of  weak- 
ness. The  heat  prostrated  me  very  much.  I  began  to 
fear  I  should  never  bo  able  to  do  any  two  things  at  once 
again.  But  since  my  family  has  returned  to  its  usual  size, 
and  the  cool  days  of  autumn  have  sent  their  invigorating 
influences  to  my  bodily  powers,  my  mind  improves  '  a 
little,  not  much'  (as  my  Rob  says  fifty  times  a  day).  Lit- 
erally, I  could  not  write  a  letter  through  the  whole  summer  ; 
and  now  the  task  is  so  novel  a  one,  that  I  cannot  expect  to 
be  coherent,  this  being  my  first. 

"  In  this  state  of  things,  my  husband  left  me  for  a  walk 
to  the  White  Hills.  I  felt  sure  that,  if  pursued  with  due 
discretion,  it  would  do  him  good.  He  was  pretty  well,  but 
wanted  something  to  give  him  a  spring  before  beginning  to 
preach.  I  had  not  the  least  objection  to  his  going,  but  hav- 
ing watched  him  so  long,  so  incessantly,  I  felt  very  much 
as  a  mother  does  the  first  night  she  weans  her  infant  from 
her.  In  pursuance  of  my  long-established  habit,  I  set  my- 
self the  task  of  preparing  for  any  accident  which  might  be- 
fall him,  and  I  believe  looked  at  all  the  possibilities  of  the 
case  ;  so  that  when  the  summons  actually  came  for  me  to 
attend  him  at  Concord,  where  he  was  ill  of  a  fever,  it  did 
not  take  me  by  surprise.  I  was,  as  it  were,  prepared  for  it, 
and  could  receive  it  calmly  and  act  coolly.  In  two  hours  I 
was  on  my  way  to  him,  confident  in  my  own  strength,  for 
no  care  of  him  present  could  be  the  weight  on  my  mind 
which  the  thought  of  him  absent  had  been  ;  and  the  bodily 
exertion  was  not  as  great  as  I  had  been  for  some  time  mak 
ing,  having  been  nearly  all  summer  without  my  quantum 
of  help.  I  found  him  very  sick,  but  surrounded  by  kind- 
ness. He  soon  began  to  mend,  and  we  jogged  home- 
wards.    Harriet  had  been  with  me,  so  that  I  could  leave 


252  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

my  children  without  any  anxiety;  and  the  journey,  and  tlie 
happiness  which  accompanied  it,  did  me  good.  I  have 
been  gaining  ever  since,  and  Mr.  Ware  too.  I  am  now  so 
well,  that  I  can  walk  an  hour  before  breakfast,  and  into 
Boston  with  ease ;  and  to-day  I  have  had  the  unspeakable 
joy  of  hearing  my  husband  perform  all  the  services  of  the 
pulpit.  This  is  a  point  that  I  have  so  often  thought  of  as 
the  one  blessing  which  I  dared  not  hope  for,  and  have  be- 
lieved that,  if  it  could  be  granted,  I  should  have  nothing 
more  to  ask  for,  that  I  hardly  know  how  1  feel,  now  that  it 
is  actually  granted.  One  thing  more,  however,  I  must  ask, 
—  that  I  may  be  truly  grateful  for  it. 

"  Yours  as  ever. 

"  M.  L.  W." 

Happy  was  it  for  Mrs.  Ware  if  she  could  be  al- 
ways prepared  for  change  and  trial.  For  while  her 
life  was  a  favored  one,  and  so  regarded  by  her,  few 
enjoying  more  in  any  condition,  she  was  equally 
alive  to  all  suffering,  and  seldom  knew  a  long  ex- 
emption. So  far,  however,  she  had  been  spared  all 
trial  in  regard  to  her  children.  Not  that  they  had 
been  free  from  sickness,  or  had  caused  no  solicitude, 
for  there  had  been  much  of  both ;  but  their  lives  had 
been  continued,  and  at  this  time  she  was  rejoicing  in 
their  health.  Three  of  them  she  had  just  taken  to 
Milton,  to  enjoy  a  week  with  them  at  Brush  Hill, 
where  she  had  spent  so  much  of  her  early  life,  but 
where  she  had  not  been  at  all  since  her  children  were 
born.  Pleasantly  does  she  contrast  her  present  with 
her  former  enjoyment  there.  Writing  to  her  hus- 
band from  this  place,  she  says: — "I  am  enjoying 
myself  much,    but   find    I  was   quite    mistaken    in 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


253 


thinking  I  could  turn  into  Mary  Pickard  again  by 
the  power  of  association.  I  do  very  well  under  that 
character  through  the  day,  but  with  nightfall  the  re- 
membrance of  home  comes  over  me ;  the  idea  of  the 
husband  and  child  I  have  left  there,  and  the  three 
chickens  who  are  asleep  up  stairs,  rises  before  my 
mind's  eye,  as  so  many  more  blessings  than  poor 
Polly  could  boast,  that  I  resign  my  pretensions  with  a 
very  grateful  heart.  I  am  sorry,  dear  Henry,  that  you 
could  not  be  a  little  longer  with  me  here,  (among 
other  very  disinterested  reasons,)  that  I  might  read 
you  sundry  chapters  in  the  life  of  that  interest- 
ing personage  just  named, —  chapters  which  are 
written  about  upon  these  trees  and  stone  walls,  and 
which  no  other  place  could  recall.  It  is  very  de- 
lightful for  me  to  live  over  those  days  again,  and  I 
am  sure  my  mind  will  be  refreshed  by  this  visit,  if 
my  body  is  not.  As  to  this  latter  concern,  it  does 
as  well  as  I  could  expect." 

This  visit  was  made  just  before  her  summons  to 
Mr.  "Ware's  bedside  at  Concord.  After  their  return 
to  Cambridge,  they  took  possession  of  a  new  house 
just  built  for  them  ;  and  one  of  the  first  events  that 
occurred  in  that  house  was  the  death  of  Mrs.  Ware's 
first-born,  Robert,  then  three  and  a  half  years  of  age. 
It  was  a  sore  trial,  and  well  do  we  remember  the 
spirit  in  which  it  was  met ;  for  it  was  our  privilege 
to  be  staying  with  them  at  the  time,  and  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  parting.  The  little  sufferer  had  endeared 
himself  to  us  all  by  his  patience  and  sweetness  of 
disposition.  Separated  from  his  parents  in  early  in- 
fancy, and  remaining  apart  until  he  was  two  years 
22 


254 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


old,  they  had  taken  him  back,  when  they  returned, 
as  a  fresh  gift  from  God;  and  though  another  had 
been  granted  them,  there  was  a  peculiar  feeling  con- 
nected with  him,  which  every  parent  will  under- 
stand. Movingly  now  does  the  scene  return  to  us, 
of  the  mother  sitting  silently  and  reverently  at  the 
side  of  her  expiring  boy ;  and  when  the  gentle 
breathing  wholly  ceased,  asking  —  still  silently  — 
the  husband  and  father,  who  knelt  by  her,  to  pray. 
Faintly,  tremulously,  more  and  more  distinctly,  and 
then  most  fervently,  did  that  voice  of  submission  and 
supplication  fall  upon  our  ears,  and  fill  our  eyes,  and 
lift  the  heart  into  a  region  which  death  never  enters ! 
As  the  voice  ceased,  the  mother  fainted ;  but  soon 
she  rose,  stronger  rather  than  weaker,  and  ready  for 
every  duty.  In  referring  to  this  bereavement  after- 
ward, she  says,  in  the  thought  of  her  husband's  con- 
stant danger :  "  Having  had  so  long  the  greatest 
possible  trial  hanging  over  my  head,  every  thing  else 
seems  comparatively  easy  to  bear ;  and  1  sometimes 
doubt,  whether  any  thing  but  that  one  will  ever  wean 
me  from  the  world,  as  I  think  a  Christian  should  be." 
How  much  she  felt,  and  how  much  she  trusted,  may 
be  seen  in  her  first  letter  after  this  trial. 

"  Cambridge,  December  31,  1831. 
"  My  DEAR  Friend  :  — 

"  Again  does  this  anniversary  find  us  inhabitants  of  this 
world,  and  again,  as  usual,  does  it  present  in  my  lot  some- 
thing of  solemn  and  interesting  import,  upon  which  we  may 
dwell  with  profit  for  a  time.  It  is  a  privileged  hour,  and  I 
shall  use  it  as  I  have  been  wont  to  do,  in  the  full  indulgence 
of  selfish  egotism,  trusting  that  some  good  may  result  to  us 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGl'..  255 

both  from  it.  "What  does  the  retrospect  of  the  year  present 
to  me  ?  My  husband  and  myself  have  been  again  raised 
from  the  bed  of  sickness  and  threatened  death,  and  I  have 
been  called  upon  to  restore  to  Him  who  gave  one  of  the 
dearest  treasures  which  His  providence  had  bestowed  upon 
me.  These  are  great  events  for  one  short  year,  designed 
to  produce  great  effects,  involving  great  responsibility,  be- 
stowing great  privileges.  My  own  sickness  brought  with  it 
many  pleasures,  many  pure  and  elevating  views  and  feel- 
ings ;  and  although  it  did  not  bring  me  to  that  cheerful 
willingness  to  resign  my  life  after  which  I  strove  and 
hoped  to  attain,  it  thereby  threw  light  upon  the  weakness 
of  my  religious  character,  calculated  to  subdue  presumptu- 
ous self-dependence,  and  teach  a  lesson  of  humility  which 
may  perhaps  be  of  more  importance  and  advantage  to  my 
growth  in  holiness.  My  husband's  danger  renewed  the  so 
oft  repeated  testimony  that  strength  is  ever  at  hand  for 
those  who  need  it,  gave  me  another  exercise  of  trust  in  that 
mighty  arm  which  can  save  to  the  uttermost,  and  in  its 
result  is  a  new  cause  for  gratitude  to  Him  who  has  so 
abundantly  blessed  me  all  the  days  of  my  life. 

"  And  now  has  come  this  new  trial  of  my  faith,  this  new 
test  of  its  reality,  that  there  may  be  no  hiding-place  left  for 
me,  no  light  wanting  by  which  to  search  into  the  hidden 
recesses  of  the  spirit  to  '  see  if  there  be  any  wicked  way 
in  it.'  And  whatever  may  be  the  result  of  this  strict 
scrutiny,  am  I  not  to  be  thankful  for  it .?  Am  I  not  to  feel 
that  it  is  indeed  the  kindest  love  that  subjects  me  to  it  ? 
We  feel  it  a  privilege  that  a  child  should  have  earthly 
parents  to  guide,  counsel,  and  correct  it ;  and  shall  we  not 
be  grateful  to  that  Heavenly  Parent  who  does  the  same  in  a 
far  better  manner  >  I  would  thank  God  that  he  has  by  his 
past  dispensations  taught  me  the  duty  and  happiness  of 
submission,  so  that  I  can  bow  to  the  rod,  and  desire  only 


256  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGK. 

to  see  how  its  chastisement  is  to  be  used  and  improved.  I 
have  always  looked  upon  the  death  of  children  rather  as  a 
subject  for  joy  than  sorrow,  and  have  been  perplexed  at 
seeing  so  many,  who  would  bear  what  seemed  to  me  much 
harder  trials  with  firmness,  so  completely  overwhelmed  by 
this,  as  is  frequently  the  case.  But  I  know  that  upon  any 
point  in  which  we  have  had  no  personal  experience  we 
cannot  form  a  correct  judgment,  and  therefore  1  have  never 
had  any  definite  anticipations  of  its  effect  upon  myself.  I 
am  thankful  to  find  that  the  general  views  upon  which  my 
former  opinions  have  been  founded  are  not  obscured  by  the 
flood  of  new  emotions  which  actual  experience  brings.  I 
can  resign  my  child  into  the  hands  of  its  Maker,  with  as 
strong  a  belief  as  I  ever  had,  that  it  is  a  blessing  to  itself  to 
be  removed,  '  untasked,  untried,'  from  a  world  in  which  the 
result  of  labor  and  trial  is  so  doubtful.  It  is  a  blessing  to 
be  taken  from  the  care  of  ignorant,  powerless  human 
teachers,  to  the  guidance  of  higher  and  holier  and  perfect 
instructors ;  so  that  its  pure  spirit  will  not  now  be  sullied 
by  the  pollutions  of  this  degraded  world,  but  go  on  from 
glory  to  glory  until  it  has  attained  the  full  measure  of  the 
stature  of  a  child  of  God. 

"  You  know  too  well  what  are  the  hopes  and  enjoyments 
belonging  to  the  relation  of  parent  and  child,  to  require  to 
be  told  how  hard  it  is  to  lay  them  all  aside ;  and  thoro  was 
something  in  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  birth  and 
life  of  this  child,  which  could  not  but  give  a  peculiar  char- 
acter to  our  connection  with  him.  And  so  he  has  passed 
from  us ;  but  what  a  comfort  to  know  that  we  have  not  lost 
him  !  We  had  a  visit  from  Dr.  Channing  yesterday,  in 
which  he  spoke  so  gloriously  of  the  honor  of  having  given 
a  child  to  heaven,  as  to  elevate  me  far  above  common 
considerations.     But  enough  ;  think  of  us  still  as  happy. 

"  M.  L.  Ware." 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  257 

One  of  the  traits  of  Mrs.  Ware's  character  —  not 
named  for  its  singularity  or  distinction,  but  simply 
as  a  fact,  noticed  by  all  who  knew  her  —  was  the 
amount  of  time  and  strength  which  she  devoted  to 
her  children.  With  all  the  sicknesses,  which  from 
this  period  came  almost  constantly  either  to  her  or 
her  husband,  and  which  are  apt  to  make  such  sad 
inroads  upon  our  quiet  and  faithful  intercourse  with 
our  children,  —  amid  all  her  domestic  cares,  of  which 
she  took  as  large  a  share,  in  every  department,  as 
perhaps  any  woman  ever  did  in  a  similar  position, 
feeling  and  seeing,  all  the  time,  the  painful  need  of 
a  rigid  economy,  in  the  midst  of  never-ceasing  and 
never-limited  hospitality,  —  her  thoughtfulness  and 
care  for  each  child,  in  regard  to  the  body,  the  mind, 
and  the  soul,  seemed  literally  uninterrupted.  And 
this  care  of  her  children  reached  them  in  their  ab- 
sence as  well  as  their  presence.  In  the  summer  after 
Robert's  death,  the  oldest  son,  John,  was  placed 
at  school  in  Framingham,  where  he  remained  sev- 
eral years ;  and  seldom  did  he  fail  to  receive,  not 
only  faithful  letters,  but  a  journal  of  daily  doings, 
from  his  mother's  pen,  though  she  long  remained 
feeble,  and  was  now  the  mother  of  another  infant, 
which  she  was  compelled  to  put  out  to  nurse.  An- 
other term  of  severe  illness  ensued,  causing  a  lame- 
ness of  long  duration.  But  as  soon  as  possible, 
indeed  all  along,  she  was  doing  something  for  the 
absent  son. 

"  When  you  left  home,  my  dear  John,"  she  writes 
in  July,   1832,   "  I  thought  I  should   soon  be  well 
enough  to  write  you,  and  intended  to  keep  a  journal 
22* 


258 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


for  you  of  what  went  on  amongst  us,  to  be  sent  to 
you  every  fortnight ;  but  now  you  have  been  gone 
two  months,  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  write  to 
you  once,  so  little  can  we  calculate  upon  the  future. 
I  have  been  obliged  to  keep  my  bed  a  great  part  of 
the  time,  and  am  not  yet  able  to  walk  across  the 
room  without  much  pain.  I  have  not  been  down 
stairs,  excepting  twice,  when  I  was  carried  in  arms 
to  the  front  door,  and  rode  about  ten  minutes,  which 
hurt  me  so  much  that  I  shall  not  try  it  again,  very 
Boon.  I  tell  you  all  this,  that  you  may  understand 
how  impossible  it  has  been  for  me  to  fulfil  my 
promise  to  you.  I  have  thought  much  of  you,  and 
rejoiced  to  hear  so  often  from  you  that  you  were 
happy  and  improving.  When  I  have  felt  that  I 
should  never  get  well,  and  perhaps  never  see  you 
again  in  this  world,  I  have  been  very  anxious  about 
you,  and  have  prayed  most  fervently  that  God  would 
guide  you  in  the  right  path,  and  hoped  that  you 
would  live  to  be  a  comfort  to  your  father  when  1 

was  gone 

"  This  is  a  busy  week  with  us ;  yesterday  being 
Exhibition,  to-day  Valedictory,  to-morrow  the  The- 
ological Exhibition  in  the  morning  and  a  public 
meeting  of  the  Philanthropic  Society  in  the  after- 
noon. We  shall  have  an  open  house,  and  hope  to 
have  as  many  friends  with  us  as  we  had  last  year." 
An  open  house,  filled  with  friends,  all  welcomed 
and  in  some  way  entertained  by  the  lady  of  the 
house,  who  is  not  able  to  walk  across  the  room  with- 
out pain  !  We  doubt  not  there  arc  hundreds  of  such 
cases,  some,  it  may  be,  more  trying  and   more  re- 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  259 

rnarkable ;  but  it.  does  not  alter  the  fact,  nor  make  it 
less  worthy  of  notice  in  a  woman  who  did  all  that 
Mrs.  Ware  did. 

It  was  a  feature  of  Mrs.  Ware's  domestic  charac- 
ter, that  the  throng  of  cares  and  conflict  of  duties 
seldom  worried  her.  Many  are  they  who  are  as  dili- 
gent and  faithful,  but  yet  live  in  a  perpetual  hurry 
and  fret.  She  knew  the  danger,  and  brought  all  her 
power  and  principle  to  withstand  it,  even  in  the 
smallest  matters.  Often  have  we  heard  her  lament- 
ing the  necessity  of  spending  so  much  of  life  in 
mere  drudgery,  ministering  to  the  perishing  but 
never-satisfied  body;  a  necessity  and  service  that 
devolve  upon  many  women,  and  take  from  them 
the  opportunity  of  high  mental  and  spiritual  culture, 
unless  they  carry  into  these  daily  duties  and  petty 
cares  a  calm  spirit  and  a  cheerful  tone,  with  an  ele- 
vated and  steadfast  purpose.  Such  was  Mary's 
habitual  endeavor.  The  difficulty,  and  the  frequent 
failure,  none  were  more  ready  to  own.  She  never 
satisfied  herself,  but  she  never  flagged.  She  never 
worried.  Sudden  interruptions,  culinary  disappoint- 
ments, "  shoals  of  visitors  "  with  little  of  preparation, 
were  not  allowed  to  chill  her  welcome  or  cloud  their 
enjoyment.  There  were  no  apologies  at  that  table. 
If  unexpected  guests  were  not  always  filled,  they 
were  never  annoyed,  nor  suffered  to  think  much  about 
it.  A  clergyman,  who  visited  the  house  often  as  a 
student,  says  of  Mrs.  Ware :  "  I  remember  the  won- 
der I  felt  at  her  humility  and  dignity  in  welcom- 
ing to  her  table  on  some  occasion  a  troop  of  acci- 
dental guests,  when  she  had  almost  nothing  to  offer 


2G0 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


but  her  hospitality.  The  absence  of  all  apologies 
and  of  all  mortification,  the  ease  and  cheerfulness 
of  the  conversation,  which  became  the  only  feast, 
gave  me  a  lesson  never  forgotten,  although  never 
learned." 

Are  these  little  things?  They  fill  a  large  place  in 
life,  and  have  much  to  do  with  its  solid  comfort. 
They  affect  the  temper,  they  enter  into  the  charac- 
ter, and  may  help  or  hinder  our  best  power  and  im- 
provement. We  introduce  them  here  because  they 
are  little.  There  was  not  much  in  the  life  we  are 
penning  that  was  not  little  in  some  comparisons.  It 
is  the  life  of  a  plain,  retiring,  domestic  woman.  It 
is  an  example  not  beyond  the  reach  of  any  who  de- 
sire to  reach  it.  We  wish  to  show  it  just  as  it  was ; 
and  to  show,  that  of  nothing  was  it  more  clearly  the 
result,  in  nothing  does  its  value  more  clearly  consist, 
than  in  the  power  of  Christian  faith  and  simple 
goodness. 

We  have  sometimes  thought  it  would  be  well  if 
all  parishioners,  those  especially  who  are  quick  to 
discern  the  failings  and  slow  to  understand  the  labors 
of  their  pastor,  could  spend  a  few  weeks  in  his  house, 
and  get  some  idea  of  the  variety,  complexity,  ardu- 
ousness,  and  endlessness  of  his  duties.  But  from 
the  picture  which  Mrs.  Ware  gives  of  the  life  at 
Cambridge,  we  should  infer  that  the  engagements 
and  interruptions  of  most  parishes  were  light  in  the 
comparison.  "  I  used  to  think  Boston  life  a  very 
busy  and  irregular  one;  but  our  life  here  is  far  more 
so.  There,  there  were  some  hours  in  the  day  in 
which,  from  conventional  custom,  one  was  secure  ol 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  261 

being  quiet.  But  here,  neither  early  hours  nor  late, 
neither  rain  nor  tempest,  are  any  security  against  in- 
terruption ;  and  often,  very  often,  does  a  whole  day 
pass  without  either  my  husband  or  myself  having 
one  moment  for  our  own  occupations,  or  even  a 
chance  to  exchange  a  single  sentence  of  recognition. 
I  do  not  complain  of  this,  for  it  is  inevitable.  I 
must  believe  it  is  our  appointed  duty.  But  it  seems 
sometimes  a  most  unprofitable  mode  of  passing 
away  life ;  at  least  it  is  very  difficult  to  make  prog- 
ress in  the  things  one  most  desires,  when  our  time 
and  our  thoughts  are  so  little  at  our  own  disposal." 

Still,  amid  all  these  calls  and  cares,  the  "journal" 
continues,  and  full  sheets  of  companion-like  narra- 
tion or  maternal  counsel  go  to  the  schoolboy  at 
Framingham,  who  is  having  some  of  the  trials  of 
school-life,  petty,  but  serious. 

"  Dear  John,  it  is  time  you  had  another  letter, 
and  I  am  very  glad  to  be  able  to  write  you  one ;  it 
is  the  next  best  thing  to  sitting  down  by  you  and 
having  a  good  chat.  I  should  very  much  like  to 
look  in  upon  you,  and  know  exactly  how  you  get 
along.  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  bear  any  provo- 
cation you  may  receive  with  perfect  quietness  and 
forbearance.  Such  conduct  as  you  describe  is  not 
worthy  of  notice ;  and  if  you  persevere  in  doing 
right,  and  show  no  arrogance  or  pride  about  it,  you 
will  gain  their  respect  in  time,  that  is,  of  all  who  are 
worth  gaining.  I  am  very  glad  you  have  Mr.  Ab- 
bott's book  (The  Young  Christian).  I  thought  of 
you  when  1  was  reading  it,  and  felt  as  if  it  would  be 
very  useful  to  you.     You  will  find  much  in  it  which 


262  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

you  never  thought  of,  and  much  of  which  you  will 
see  a  counterpart  within  yourself,  if  you  examine 
yourself  faithfully.  It  seemed  to  me,  while  reading 
it,  that  I  was  looking  into  a  glass  which  reflected 
myself;  for  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  more 
about  myself  than  I  used  to  at  your  age,  and  I 
often  wish  that  I  had  had  such  looking-glasses  then ; 
I  should,  I  think,  have  been  saved  many  a  feeling  of 
self-reproach,  and  many  a  foolish  and  sinful  action. 
You  can  hardly  imagine  now  how  great  a  blessing  you 
possess  in  the  watchful  care  which  is  extended  over 
you  by  your  dear  father;  may  it  never  be  with- 
drawn from  you  until  you  have  learned  to  guide 
yourself  by  the  high  and  holy  principles  of  Christian 
virtue ! " 

It  shows  Mr.  Ware's  apprehensions  in  regard  to 
his  wife's  health  as  well  as  his  own,  that,  in  a  letter 
to  the  same  son,  he  writes :  "  I  find  that  your  two 
parents  are  in  very  frail  health,  and  probably  des- 
tined to  a  short  life.  You  will  perhaps,  therefore,  be 
left  at  an  early  age  to  take  care  of  yourself." 

We  learn  still  more  of  their  mental  and  social  life 
at  this  period  from  two  letters  which  Mrs.  Ware 
wrote  at  the  end  of  the  years  1832  and  1833  ;  there 
having  been  little  variety  between,  except  a  jour- 
ney south  as  far  as  Alexandria,  which  they  took 
together,  for  recreation  and  health,  early  in  1833, 
with  a  few  later  incidents  referred  to  in  the  letters. 


"  Cambridge,  December  31,  1832. 

"  Dear  N : 

F prophesied,  ten  years  ago,  that  friendship  be- 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  263 

tween  married  women  could  not  be  of  long  continuance. 
He  did  not  know  that  there  is  in  woman's  nature  some- 
thing which  woman  only  can  fully  understand ;  or  his 
knowledge  of  human  nature  in  general  would  have  shown 
him  that  the  love  of  sympathy  will  triumph  over  many  an 
obstacle,  which  would  be  a  perfect  barrier  to  a  less  power- 
ful motive.  Who  but  a  woman,  and  one  too  who  knows 
the  exact  mould  in  which  one's  soul  is  fashioned,  would 
understand  what  it  has  been  to  me  to  stand  on  the  verge  of 
the  grave,  in  full  possession  of  the  whole  intellectual  being 
and  prepare  myself  to  leave  such  an  assemblage  of  bless- 
ings as  have  fallen  to  my  lot,  —  husband,  children,  friends, 
and  the  delightful  duties  which  accompany  these  relations, 
—  and  then  to  be  restored  to  them  all,  with  an  added  gift! 
And  all  without  one  drawback,  but  my  own  want  of  sensi- 
bility, to  make  the  blessing  as  great  as  it  would  be  with  a 
more  sensitive  heart.  Perhaps  no  one  can  fully  compre- 
hend it  who  has  not  been  placed  in  exactly  the  same  situa- 
tion. But  you  can  come  nearer  to  it  than  any  one  else, 
and  you  will  not  wonder  that  the  past  should  seem  to  me 
one  of  the  most  valuable  years  of  my  life.  I  have  often 
wished  for  just  this  experience,  when  I  have  felt  how  inef 
fectual  were  the  monitors  of  Providence  in  awakening  that 
deep  sense  of  God's  goodness,  and  that  clear  conviction  of 
the  reality  of  a  future  state,  which  are  so  important  to  the 
Christian  life.  I  have  almost  envied  those  who  were  per- 
mitted to  approach  so  nearly  to  the  gates  of  death  as  to  give 
up  all  expectation  of  a  prolonged  life.  It  has  seemed  as  it 
this  appeal  must  be  irresistible ;  as  if  there  could  be  no 
more  deadness,  or  apathy,  or  indifference,  after  this.  One 
could  not  come  back  to  the  world  and  be  absorbed  as  before 
in  its  short-lived  pursuits.  But  vain  is  the  hope,  I  begin  to 
fear,  of  our  being  raised  by  any  thing  so  much  above  the 
world,  as  not  to  be  subject  to  the  power  of  the  temptei 


204  LIFK    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

while  we  live  in  it.  The  physical  weakness  which  enables 
us  to  realize  the  uncertain  tenure  by  which  we  are  connect- 
ed with  this  world  is  gradually  changed  into  strength,  and 
the  power  to  act  brings  with  it  the  desire  ;  —  and  who  shal 
easily  set  bounds  to  this  desire  ?  It  is  the  all-consuming 
monster  that  cries,  '  Give  !  give  ! '  until  we  do  give  it  every 
day,  every  hour,  every  thought,  —  until  the  present  alone 
occupies  us,  and,  alas !  satisfies  us  too.  Is  this  exaggera- 
tion, merely  a  dark  picture  drawn  from  my  own  sad  ex- 
perience ?     I  hope  it  is. 

"  But  I  am  going  too  far,  filling  all  my  paper  with  croak- 
ing, when  I  have  so  pleasant  a  picture  of  my  '  outer  man ' 
to  present  to  you.  We  are  all  well ;  that  is,  well  enough 
to  be  free  from  anxiety  on  the  subject ;  —  neither  Henry  nor 
I  good  for  much  beyond  a  very  narrow  sphere,  but  free 
from  disease.  I  keep  very  quietly  at  home.  Indeed,  I 
cannot  do  otherwise  ;  a  ride  into  Boston  tires  me  so  much, 
that  I  am  not  fit  for  any  thing  for  a  day  after ;  a  walk  does 
the  same.  So  I  am  fain  to  content  myself  with  my  home 
comforts ;  and  to  this  end  I  have  converted  my  chamber 
into  a  study,  where  Henry  writes,  I  work,  and  Nanny  plays 
all  the  livelong  day.  It  is  more  like  Sheafe  Street  comfort 
than  any  thing  we  have  had  since.  My  husband's  social 
habits,  and  the  fact  of  our  having  lived  so  much  together 
for  the  last  three  years,  make  it  particularly  pleasant  to 
him  to  be  saved  the  trouble  of  coins  in  search  of  me  whcn- 
ever  he  wants  to  read  a  sentence  or  say  a  word  ;  and  for 
the  same  reasons,  it  is  very  pleasant  to  mc  to  have  so  much 
of  his  presence  without  feeling  that  he  is  taken  off*  from  his 
rightful  pursuits  by  it.  January  1,  1833!  A  happy  new 
year  to  you  all ! 

"  Yours  truly. 

"  M.  L.  W.» 


"  My  dear  N- 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  265 

"  Cambridge^  December  31,  1833. 


"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  is  our  inordinate  estimate 
of  the  happiness  of  this  life,  and  our  vague,  half-sceptical 
notions  of  a  future  state,  that  make  us  grieve  so  much  when 

such  spirits  as  Elizabeth  B are  withdrawn  from  us.     I 

don't  know,  but  I  sometimes  greatly  fear  that  we  do  not 
bring  home  the  reality  of  the  future  as  we  should  do  ;  we 
are  so  occupied  with  our  theories  of  right  principles  of  ac- 
tion and  correct  ideas  of  moral  conduct  in  this  life  (all  very 
good  in  their  place),  and  so  afraid  of  falling  into  the  ex- 
travagant exercise  of  the  imagination,  which  has  betrayed 
so  many  of  our  opponents  in  doctrine  into  enthusiasm  and 
folly,  that  we  lose  sight  of  the  good  influences  which  such 
contemplations  might  have  upon  our  hearts.  This  year  has 
been  to  me  one  of  less  variety  than  any  of  the  last  six. 
My  husband's  long  sickness  in  the  spring,  and  the  efforts 
consequent  upon  it,  were  the  source  of  much  anxiety,  and 
in  some  points  a  new  experience.  But  I  have  had  for  so 
long  a  time  only  to  bear  and  submit,  that  my  mind  has 
settled  itself  into  that  attitude,  and  it  is  no  longer  an  effort. 
It  is  quite  another  thing,  when  it  becomes  my  duty  to  exer- 
cise my  energies  in  positive  acts,  —  when  others  are  looking 
to  me  for  guidance,  when  my  habitual  influence  is  to  form 
the  character  of  this  child  and  check  the  waywardness  of 
that,  with  all  the  train  of  active  duties  which  devolve  upon 
a  married  woman,  —  then  I  am  overpowered  and  power- 
less. 

"  I  wished  you  had  been  by  my  side  on  Sunday,  while  I 
sat  in  my  old  corner  in  Federal  Street  meeting-house,  listen- 
ing to  that  voice  which  is  to  us  both  associated  with  some 
of  our  best  religious  impressions.  I  went  to  hear  Dr. 
Channing,  for  the  second  time  only  since  I  returned  home, 
as  much  for  the  sake  of  recalling  old  associations  as  from 
23 


266 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


any  expectation  of  new  influences  ;  for  it  does  me  good 
now  and  then  to  go  back  to  what  I  was,  the  better  to  under- 
stand what  I  am.  If  he  had  known  just  what  I  was  suf- 
fering, he  could  not  have  adapted  himself  more  entirely  to 
my  case.  He  was  upon  some  of  the  obstacles  which  may 
prevent  our  use  of  the  present  moment  for  improvement ; 
and  he  enlarged  upon  the  tendency  to  rest  satisfied  with 
past  attainments.  Because  we  had  at  one  period  of  our 
lives  been  deeply  moved  and  strongly  influenced  by  re- 
ligious motives,  —  had  performed  some  great  acts  of  benev- 
olence, or  sustained  ourselves  under  great  trial  with  forti- 
tude and  submission,  —  we  deluded  ourselves  with  the  idea, 
that  we  had  attained  a  height  from  which  we  could  not  fall. 
But  no  mistake  could  be  more  ruinous.  The  past  was 
nothings  except  as  it  influenced  the  present.  We  trust  too 
much  to  future  improvement,  to  a  vague  notion  of  gradual 
progress,  —  we  know  not  exactly  how,  or  by  what  means. 
But  as  we  are  not  conscious  of  becoming  worse,  we  think 
we  must  be  growing  better,  and  shall  by  and  by  be  all  that 
we  ought  to  be.  Or  we  hope  for  more  favorable  circum- 
stances to  influence  us,  and  expect  to  be,  we  know  not  why, 
in  a  more  fit  state  at  some  other  time  for  our  religious 
duties. 

"  Had  I  room,  I  could  give  you  a  long  story  about  this, 
for  my  mind  is  full  of  it.  But  I  have  another  word  to  say 
upon  the  fact  of  our  giving  so  much  time  to  the  mere  out- 
side of  life,  to  the  employment  of  our  fingers,  the  mere 
mechanical  employments  pertaining  to  the  body.  It  is  a 
question  with  me,  whether  it  is  not  a  duty  to  be  satisfied 
with  a  less  elegant,  and  even  a  less  comfortable  style  of  life, 
rather  than  take  so  much  from  the  cultivation  of  the  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual,  when,  as  is  so  often  the  case  now-a- 
days,  we  must  either  do  the  drudgery  ourselves  or  leave  it 
undone.     I  don't  know,  —  I  am  puzzled.    I  know  that  if  we 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGF  2G7 

are  doing  our  duty,  however  mean  may  be  our  employ- 
ment, we  are  fulfilling  our  destiny,  and  doing  God  the  best 
service.  But  the  question  is.  What  is  our  duty  ?  And  are 
we  not  in  danger  of  mistaking  the  real  nature  of  duty,  from 
too  great  a  love  of  this  world  and  the  things  of  it  ?  This  is 
one  of  the  difficult  questions,  which  my  husband  and  I  tiy 
to  setde.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  think.  And 
here  comes  my  Willie,  with  an  imploring  look  to  be  taken 
up,  —  a  reproving  one,  too,  that  in  all  this  long  letter  nei- 
ther he  nor  his  family  are  so  much  as  noticed.     All  are 

well. 

"  Yours  ever. 

"  M.  L.  Ware." 

Unusual  freedom  from  sickness  and  apprehension 
was  for  a  time  enjoyed.  Mrs.  Ware  was  full  of  hap- 
piness and  thankfulness.  "  It  seems  to  me  that 
never  had  people  so  much  reason  for  gratitude  as 
we  ;  and  I  think  I  never  felt  this  more  than  at  this 
time,  for  I  too  am  beginning  to  have  the  first  feel- 
ings of  health  which  I  have  known  for  a  year  and  a 
half."  But  a  change  came.  And  with  the  letter 
which  explains  it  we  close  this  portion  of  the  Cam- 
bridge life. 

"  Cambridge,  May  4,  1834. 

"  My  dear  N : 

"  . . . .  We  have  had  our  usual  variety  of  sickness  and  health 
since  I  wrote  to  you  in  January.  Soon  after  that,  I  had  a  visit 
from  my  old,  and  I  thought  conquered,  enemy,  the  cramp  ; 
not  a  very  severe  attack,  but  sufficient  to  make  me  very 
good  for  nothing  for  a  week,  in  the  course  of  which  Nanny 
had  a  very  severe  fall,  which  for  twenty-four  hours  made 
us  apprehensive  that  we  should  have  to  part  witli  her.  But 
this  trial  was  spared  us,  in  much  mercy  ;  for  two  days  after 


268  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

this,  Elizabeth  was  very  sick,  though  not  dangerously.  All 
this  had  its  effect  upon  Mr.  Ware  and  myself,  and  we  have 
oeen  the  greater  part  of  the  time  in  the  most  disagreeable 
state  of  betwixity,  neither  sick  enough  to  be  excused  from 
labor,  nor  well  enough  to  do  any  thing  profitable,  — just 
good  for  nothing.  In  the  vacation  in  April,  Mr.  Ware  went 
to  Portsmouth  to  collect  materials  for  his  Memoir  of  Dr. 
Parker,  intending  by  the  way  to  go  to  Exeter. 

"  The  day  after  he  went,  my  Willie,  who  had  been  the 
very  perfection  of  health  and  happiness  all  winter,  began  to 
droop,  and,  notwithstanding  pretty  efficient  measures,  in  a 
£ew  days  became  the  subject  of  decided  lung  fever ;  not 
very  sick,  but  requiring  constant  watching  and  careful 
attention.  A  week  from  the  day  he  was  taken,  he  had  a 
severe  spasmodic  attack,  from  which  we  thought  he  would 
never  revive  ;  and  when,  after  various  measures,  he  began 
to  breathe  again,  we  sat  for  four  hours  expecting  that 
every  moment  would  be  his  last.  It  was  a  season  of  severe 
trial,  not  a  little  increased  by  his  father's  absence,  and  the 
impossibility  of  his  reaching  home  until  this  sweet  child 
must  be  for  ever  removed  from  his  sight.  Yet  it  was  not 
for  me  to  learn  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  He  who  sends 
trial  always  gives  strength  to  bear  it.  I  knew  it  would  be 
so,  and  in  that  faith  I  rested  in  peace  and  tranquillity.  But 
this  blow,  too,  was  averted.  After  a  long  struggle  he  re- 
vived, and  I  realized,  what  I  had  never  known  before,  that 
this  second  birth,  as  it  were,  of  a  child  is  a  far  more  affecting 
cause  for  gratitude  and  joy  than  the  first  gift  ever  can  be. 
It  was  a  great  experience  in  many  ways.  It  helped  me  to 
understand  the  feeling  of  those  who  were  witnesses  of  mir- 
acles more  than  any  thing  I  ever  met  with.  For  all  human 
means  were  at  an  end  ;  nothing  could  be  done  but  to  pray 
that  the  Almighty  Power,  to  whom  all  things  were  possible, 
might  yet  interpose  to  save.     And  the  fact  of  having  been 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  269 

carried  through  such  a  trial  with  entire  submission  and 
calmness,  —  what  confidence  does  it  not  give  in  the  all-suffi- 
cient power  of  that  religion  which  can  alone  succor  one  in 
such  an  hour  of  need  !  The  kindness,  too,  which  such  an 
occasion  calls  forth  from  those  around  us,  is  not  the  least 
of  its  blessings.  It  makes  us  view  human  kind  more  justly 
than  we  are  sometimes  inclined  to  do,  and  sinks  for  ever 
some  of  those  petty  and  contemptuous  feelings  which  will 
sometimes  rise  towards  those  with  whom  we  have  but  little 
sympathy. 

"  My  husband  returned  after  all  this  was  over,  quite  sick  ; 
but  he  did  return  without  the  necessity  of  my  going  to  him, 
and  returned  to  be  the  better  for  being  at  home,  gaining 
every  moment  after  he  entered  his  house.  All  this  was 
during  that  bright,  warm  interval  in  April,  when  nature 
seemed  buoyant  with  joy.  We  had  just  completed  our 
summer  arrangements,  and  altogether  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  I  had  begun  existence  anew.  Although  somewhat  ex- 
hausted by  the  struggle,  I  really  am  better  than  for  months 

past. 

"  Yours  ever. 

"  M.  L.  Ware." 


23< 


XI. 
LIFE   IN  CAMBRIDGE.     (Continued.) 

It  is  the  misfortune  of  those  who  are  often  sick  to 
be  blamed  for  their  sicknesses  in  proportion  as  they 
are  active  and  laborious  when  well.  Their  energy  is 
sure  to  be  considered  the  cause  of  subsequent  and 
frequent  debility ;  and  if  not  blamed,  they  find  less 
compassion  or  kind  considerarion  than  the  indolent 
and  self-indulgent.  These  last  may  be  sick  all  the 
time,  and  it  is  ascribed  only  to  nature  or  the  provi- 
dence of  God.  But  the  conscientious  and  energetic, 
who  accomplish  wonders  for  themselves  or  others  in 
their  brief  intervals  of  health,  and  possibly  in  sick- 
ness likewise,  are  accused  of  imprudence  and  a  sin- 
ful disregard  of  self;  while  in  truth  it  may  be  only 
by  extreme  care  and  unknown  self-denials  that  they 
are  able  to  accomplish  any  thing. 

If  Mary  Ware  was  ever  severely  censured,  we 
suppose  it  to  have  been  in  connection  with  this  mat- 
ter of  health.  Few  women  hsv?  been  blessed  with 
a  better  constitution,  or  greater  power  of  action. 
With  an  almost  masculine  frame,  there  was  such  a 
degree  of  firmness  with  her  gentleness,  as  always 
gave  the  idea  of  more  strength  than  was  wanted. 
We  doubt  if  in  early  life  she  ever  thought  of  saving 
her  strength,  so  accustomed  was  she  to  do  any  thing 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  271 

that  needed  to  be  done,  without  saying  or  thinking 
much  about  it.  She  who  had  been  the  sole  nurse 
of  a  sick  mother  at  the  age  of  eleven  or  twelve,  and, 
as  another  describes  her  then,  "  going  through  all 
the  offices  of  the  sick-room  with  the  firmness  of  a 
woman,  holding  on  leeches  with  her  little  hand,  and 
performing  all  the  necessary  duties,  not  absolutely 
from  necessity,  but  from  so  much  love  and  so  much 
confidence  that  no  one  else  was  wanted,"  —  she  who 
had  scarcely,  from  that  period  until  middle  life,  been 
free  from  care  and  toil  for  the  sick  and  suffering,  — 
might  be  pardoned  if  she  became  self-relying,  or  at 
least  self-forgetting.  And  yet  when  at  last  that 
vigorous  frame  was  impaired,  and  the  overwrought 
energies  of  body  and  mind  partially  gave  way,  so 
that  the  remainder  of  her  life  was  subject  to  constant 
fluctuations  of  strength  and  weakness,  powerful  ex- 
ertion and  acute  suffering,  she  does  not  seem  to  us 
to  have  been  presumptuous  or  ever  reckless.  It  is 
evident  now,  if  it  was  not  at  the  time,  that  she  made 
this  as  much  a  matter  of  sober  calculation  and  con- 
scientious questioning  as  any  thing,  and  much  more 
than  is  common.  Still  she  tells  us  that  she  was 
blamed  for  her  imprudence ;  and  she  brings  instances 
from  her  own  experience  to  show  the  frequent  error 
of  judging  of  what  one  does,  or  forbears  to  do,  by  the 
apparent  result,  rather  than  from  knowledge  or  by 
principle.  "  People  judge  by  consequences,  or  what 
seem  to  be  consequences,  rather  than  by  reasoning 
upon  premises." 

It  is  partly  to  show  how  Mrs.  Ware  defended  her- 
self, and  at  the  same  time  submitted  to  counsel  and 


272  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

was  grateful  for  admonition,  and  partly  to  show 
how  singularly  insulated  she  must  have  been  in  her 
early  training  and  her  self-formed  character,  that  we 
introduce  the  following  note,  written  to  a  lady  who 
acted  the  part  of  a  true  friend.  The  date  is  not 
given,  but  the  note  itself  shows  that  it  was  written 
the  year  of  the  journey  to  the  South  already  men- 
tioned, when  she  accompanied  her  husband  at  some 
risiv  to  herself. 

"  My  dear,  good  Friend  :  — 

"  I  cannot  thank  you  as  I  would  for  your  kind  note.  I 
have  not  words  wherewith  to  picture  to  you  the  joy  I  feel, 
that  there  is  any  one  human  being  in  existence  who  is  will- 
ing to  admonish  me  freely.  If  you  have  told  me  nothing 
new,  your  words  are  none  the  less  welcome,  for  one  can- 
not have  the  truth  too  frequently  presented  to  the  mind  • 
and  although  we  may  have  all  knowledge,  it  is  not  often 
that  we  can  grasp  it  all  at  one  glance,  or  even  that  we 
remember  the  points  most  useful  to  us  at  the  time  being. 

"  You  will  not  think  I  boast,  when  I  say  that  one  and  all 
the  views  you  present  have  long  formed  part  of  the  rule  of 
action  by  which  I  have  tried  to  govern  myself,  because  I 
know  you  will  easily  understand  the  deep-searching,  Argus- 
eyed  vigilance,  which  one  wholly  self-educated  almost  in- 
evitably acquires.  I  never  have  had,  since  I  can  remember, 
a  principle  of  action  suggested  to  me,  or  a  word  said  to  show 
me  whij  one  action  was  wrong  and  another  right.  For 
many  years  a  whisper  of  blame  never  reached  my  cars ; 
and  when  at  last  it  came  like  a  flood  upon  me,  there  was 
no  friendly  looking-glass  near  to  point  out  to  me  tlie  deform- 
ity from  which  my  mistakes  arose.  At  ten  years  of  age 
I  waked  up  to  a  .sen.se  of  the  danger  of  tiie  state  of  indul- 
gejice  in  which  I  was  living.      At  ihirleen,  by  the  death  of 


LIFE    IN    CAiMBRIDGE.  273 

my  mother,  I  was  left  wholly  to  my  own  guidance,  exter- 
nally as  well  as  internally ;  and  from  that  time  to  this  I 
have  labored  night  and  day  to  know,  discipline,  and  govern 
myself,  as  I  would  a  child  for  whose  soul  I  was  responsible. 
Dr.  Channing's  sermons  and  conversation  are  the  only 
effectual  human  guide  I  ever  had,  until  I  was  married. 
Having  no  one  to  whom  to  speak,  and  but  one  friend  to 
whom  I  could  write  upon  the  subject,  no  wonder  that  my 
habits  of  thought  should  have  been  more  cultivated  than  of 
conversation ;  no  wonder  the  whole  ground  of  self-decep- 
tion, self-distrust,  self-aggrandizement,  should  have  been 
gone  over  again  and  again  until  every  root  was  displaced 
and  exposed  to  view ;  though,  alas !  not  a  hundredth  part 
eradicated.  Now  this  is  not  to  my  point,  but  you  will  still 
see  that  you  have  done  me  good  by  making  me  feel  thus 
loquacious  and  unreserved  with  you. 

"  You  remind  me  that  I  omitted  one  item  in  my  defence, 
the  mere  mention  of  which  will  answer  many  of  your  que- 
ries. Who  can  tell  how  often  a  person,  blamed  for  the  dis- 
regard of  many  considerations  which  ought  to  influence  the 
conduct,  is  inflamed  by  those  very  considerations,  restrained 
by  those  very  motives  ?  We  see  what  is  done  ;  we  cannot 
see  what  is  forborne.  In  proof  of  this,  after  I  recovered 
from  the  long  illness  which  followed  immediately  upon  my 
arrival  at  home,  three  and  a  half  years  ago,  it  was  five  or 
six  months  before  I  felt  any  thing  like  elasticity  of  mind  or 
body  ;  the  least  effort  fatigued  me  ;  I  looked  perfectly  well, 
and  every  body  was  asking  me  why  I  did  not  go  here,  there, 
and  everywhere.  I  knew  from  my  feelings  that  1  still 
needed  rest,  and  I  took  it.  Change  of  air,  consequent  upon 
the  necessity  of  attending  Mr.  Ware  in  his  sickness  at  Con- 
cord, produced  a  great  change  in  my  whole  feelings.  I 
seemed  well  again ;  but  I  knew  my  system  had  materially 
suffered  while  abroad,  and  1  determined  religiously  to  abstain 


274  LIFE    IN    CAMBraDGK. 

from  all  effort  of  all  kinds  that  did  not  seem  perfectly  safe 
No  one  knew  any  thing  about  it,  I  was  so  well.  Still  I 
persevered.  1  literally  did  not  walk  across  the  room,  or  eat 
a  meal,  that  winter,  without  deliberately  arguing  the  case, 
—  was  it  best  or  not  ?  In  this  healthy  state,  I  went  to  Dr. 
W.'s  lecture,  and  was  very  prudent  afterward  ;  yet  whei. 
my  severe  sickness  commenced,  it  was  all  laid  to  tha 
lecture ;  I  was  talked  to,  even  in  its  worst  stages,  as  if  tc 
be  sick  was  a  crime,  and  I  have  not  to  this  day  heard  the 

last  of  it Again,  I  never  in  my  whole  life  did  so 

imprudent  a  thing  as  undertaking  the  journey  I  did  last 
spring ;  there  was  no  one  reason  against  the  probability,  al- 
most certainty,  of  its  injuring  me.  I  knew  the  risk  ;  no  one 
else  did.  I  took  the  risk,  because  I  thought  the  object  au- 
thorized it.  The  result,  after  much  suffering  by  the  way, 
was  favorable,  and  all  W£is  well.  Had  it  been  otherwise, 
there  would  have  been  voices  enough  to  point  out  that  it 

was  wrong 

"  There  is  one  simple  question  which  I  wish  to  have  an- 
swered,—  How  do  other  people  attain  infallible  correct- 
ness of  judgment }  Is  it  by  experience  or  intuition  ?  If 
the  former,  have  they  not  suffered  from  their  experiments, 
sometimes  erred  in  their  calculations,  and  should  they  not 
have  charity  for  others  who  are  going  over  the  same 
ground  ?  If  by  the  latter,  should  they  not  pity  those  less 
favored  than  themselves  ?  I  will  not  trouble  you  any  more 
with  my  egotism.  Remember,  the  best  favor  you  can  con- 
fei  is,  when  you  think  1  am  doing  wrong,  to  check  me,  ask 
me  why,  show  me  wherein  I  deceive  myself;  and  never 
fea   to  speak  plainly  to  your  grateful  friend, 

"  M.  L.  Ware." 

There  is  another  province  into  which  the  really 
high-minded   and  independent  will   carry  the   same 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  275 

conscientiousness,  with  equal  firmness.  It  is  a  prov- 
ince often  regarded  as  low  and  little.  Nothing  is 
little  that  involves  principles  and  affects  character. 
And  what  does  this  more  than  Dress  ?  It  is  a  mat- 
ter to  which  few  can  be  indifferent,  even  in  a  pecu- 
niary view;  and  that  is  by  no  means  the  highest 
view.  Love  of  dress  is  admitted  to  be  one  of  the 
earliest  passions  that  appear  in  human  nature,  and 
may  be  said  to  be  a  universal  passion.  If  it  be 
stronger  in  one  sex  than  in  the  other,  —  a  fact  more 
easily  assumed  than  demonstrated,  —  she  is  the  no- 
bler woman,  wife,  and  mother  who  gives  it  its  proper 
place  among  the  elements  of  education,  and  both 
deigns  and  dares  to  speak  of  it  and  act  upon  it  as  a 
Christian. 

So  did  Mrs.  Ware  speak  and  act.  The  circum- 
stances in  which  she  had  always  been  placed,  in- 
ducing the  habit  and  the  necessity  of  strict  frugality, 
as  we  have  seen,  would  alone  have  prevented  her 
from  overlooking  so  large  an  item  in  the  domestic 
and  social  economy.  But  besides  this,  she  had  re- 
gard to  the  integrity  of  her  principles,  and  the  in- 
fluence of  example.  She  aimed  evidently  at  two 
points,  not  easily  attained  together,  —  to  make  little 
of  the  whole  matter  of  dress,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
bring  it  under  the  control  of  a  high  Christian  rule. 
As  to  her  own  attire,  we  should  say  no  one  thought 
of  it  at  all,  because  of  its  simplicity,  and  because  of 
her  ease  of  manners  and  dignity  of  character.  Yet 
this  impression  is  qualified,  though  in  one  view  con- 
firmed, by  hearing  that,  in  a  new  place  of  residence, 
BO  plain  was  her  appearance  on  all  occasions,  the  vil- 


276  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

lagers  suspected  her  of  reserving  her  fine  clothes  for 
some  better  class,  —  a  suspicion  only  amusing  to 
those  who  knew  her,  but  sure  to  give  pain  to  her 
benevolent  heart.  In  another  note  to  the  female 
friend  last  addressed,  she  expresses  her  thoughts  and 
describes  her  practice  on  this  subject,  so  simply  and 
sensibly,  that  we  cannot  hesitate  to  offer  all  of  it  ex- 
cept the  specific  and'  personal  applications ;  while 
these,  if  they  could  be  given,  would  show  yet  more 
how  consistent  and  thorough  she  was. 

"  Saturday  Evening,  January  1 7,  1 835. 
*'  My  dear  Friend  :  — 

"  I  have  such  a  poor  faculty  at  expressing  myself  in 
speech,  that  I  never  feel  that  I  have  quite  done  myself  jus- 
tice in  any  delicate  matter,  when  I  have  used  only  oral  means. 
I  have  felt  this  peculiarly  since  I  left  you  this  afternoon,  be- 
cause some  expressions  of  mine  have  recurred  to  my 
mind's  ear,  which  I  thought  might  possibly  be  construed  by 
you  into  a  very  different  meaning  from  their  intended  one. 
I  do  not,  as  you  know,  like  to  trouble  my  friends  with  the 
discussions  of  questions  merely  personal,  and  which  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  decide  for  myself  unaided ;  and  the 
whole  subject  of  dress  seems,  at  a  first  glance,  so  trifling, 
that  most  people  would  laugh  at  my  having  a  serious 
thought  about  it.  But  to  me,  the  least  thing  which  can 
have  an  influence  upon  the  character  of  my  children  be- 
comes in  my  eyes  a  matter  of  deep  importance ;  and  for 
this  reason  I  have  really  longed  to  enter  upon  this  said  sub- 
ject with  some  one  who  could  look  at  it  in  the  same  light, 
or  who  could  disabuse  me  of  my  anxiety  about  h,  if  it  was 
a  foolish  one.  '  Accident  has  opened  the  door  to  your  ear, 
and  if  you  can  have  patience  with  me,  and  I  can  find  words 
to  tell  you  what  I  mean,  I  may  some  time  or  other  try  your 
friendship  in  this  way. 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  ^1 

**To  go  back  a  little.     When  we  went  to  Europe,  you 
may  know  it  was  the  liberality  of  our  friends,  and  the  good- 
will of  the  Corporation,  which  enabled  us  to  undertake  the 
expense  of  so  long  a  tour.     We  calculated  very  well  for 
such  novices,  but  could  not  anticipate  the  great  additional 
draft  which  a  child's  birth  and  the  journey  home  would 
make  upon  our  resources.     Consequently  we  returned  in 
debt.     This  debt  we  had  hoped  to  liquidate  by  living  within 
our  salary,  and  thus  laying  by  a  little  every  year.     Four 
years'  experiment  has  proved  this  hope  fallacious.     Every 
year  has  brought  with  it  some  occasion  of  great  extra  ex- 
pense, which  has  taken  up  what  might  otherwise  have  been 
laid  by  for  this  purpose.     We  have  had,  you  know,  a  great 
deal  of  sickness,  and  there  have  been  other  contingencies 
which  it  is  not  necessary  to  enumerate.     These  may  not 
occur  again,  but  past  experience  proves  that  we  have  no 
right  to  calculate  upon  such  exemptions ;  and  it  becomes, 
therefore,  more  than  ever  necessary  that  we  economize  in 
the  strictest  manner,  to  do  all  we  can  to  free  ourselves  from 
this  burden,  and  to  do  justice  to  others.     Our  children,  of 
course,  are  acquainted  with  this  state  of  affairs,  and  it  is 
right  that  they  should  do  their  part,  and  from  right  motives. 
They  know,  as  we  do,  that  there  are  many  expenses  of 
daily  occurrence  in  which  there  cannot  be  any  retrench- 
ment consistent  with  our  obligations  to  our  friends  and  the 
situation  we  hold  in  society,  —  such  as  the  calls  of  hospitality 
and  charity.     But  they  ought  to  feel  that  all  personal  sacri- 
fices are  to  be  made  that  can  be,  according  to  a  standard  of 
propriety  which  a  high  moral  sense  would  dictate.     This, 
of  course,  must  be  in  some  measure  an  arbitrary  standard, 
to  be  settled  as  much  by  experiment  and  example  as  by  rea- 
soning     I  have  therefore  had  but  few  rules  upon  the  sub- 
ject, leavmg  to  each  occasion  which  brings  up  the  question 
all  argumentation,  taking  care  to  have  us  little  discussion 
24 


278 


LIFE    IN    CAMBKIDUE. 


as  may  be  possible,  lest  it  become  in  any  way  the  siibject 
of  loo  much  thought.  This  is  particularly  to  be  avoided 
with  regard  to  dress,  and  upon  this  I  have  been  more  puz- 
zled than  on  any  other  branch,  as  both  our  elder  chil- 
dren are  just  of  an  age  to  require  very  'judgmatical' 
treatment  upon  it.  My  rule  for  myself  is,  as  1  told  you, 
to  do  without  every  thing  which  I  can  dece7itly,  making 
my  own  ideas  of  decency,  not  others',  the  standard.  It 
is  a  difficult  matter,  especially  as  I  make  no  pretensions  to 
good   taste,  or  good  faculty,  about  externals ;    but  this,  1 

maintain,  does  not  alter  the  question  of  duty 

"  I  feel  that  1  am  trying  your  patience  with  much 
ado  about  a  small  thing.  But  it  is  my  weak  side  to  wish 
to  be  thoroughly  understood  by  my  friends,  weak  points 
and  all ;  and  it  helps  me  to  understand  myself,  thus  to 
try  to  make  others  understand  me.  I  have  not  a  word 
of  complaint  to  make.  We  are  far  better  provided  for  than 
is  necessary  to  our  happiness.  We  could  live  upon  our  in- 
come and  grow  rich,  were  our  wishes  only  our  rule  ;  but  as 
we  are  situated,  it  is  not  easy  to  make  'all  ends  meet,'  as 
the  phrase  is ;  and  as  our  five  children  grow  every  day 
older,  it  becomes  more  and  more  difficult  every  year.  Can 
you  teach  me  to  economize  ?  I  fear,  however,  that  if  you 
could,  you  could  not  insure  me  strength  to  carry  your  plan 
into  execution.  No  one  who  has  not  experienced  it  can 
tell  how  great  a  drawback  sickness  is  to  all  saving,  espe- 
<',ially  when  it  comes  upon  the  head  of  the  house,  and  when 
it  requires  the  most  expensive  kinds  of  remedy.  But 
enough  of  all  this.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  if  you  do  not 
think  I  am  right  in  declining  your  offer.  I  am  always 
doubtful  enough  about  my  own  judgment,  to  be  open  to 
conviction  from  those  who  differ. 

"  Yours  in  all  love. 

"M.  L.  Ware." 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  279 

The  years  1834  and  1835  are  spoken  of  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ware  as  peculiarly  favored,  having  little 
sickness  or  severe  trial,  compared  with  other  years. 
But  this  must  have  been  only  a  comparative  view ; 
for  we  find  several  incidental  allusions  to  a  state  of 
feebleness  and  inability,  which  most  of  us  would 
consider  quite  enough  either  for  discipline  or  release 
from  labor.  Very  pleasantly,  however,  does  Mrs. 
Ware  speak  of  those  interruptions  and  prostrations, 
as  if  they  were  the  ordinary  condition.  To  Emma 
she  writes :  "  Could  you  have  alighted  upon  us  at 
any  time  within  the  last  fortnight,  you  would  have 
found  yourself  at  home.  Nearly  all  last  week  Mr. 
Ware  and  myself  enjoyed  a  most  social  tete-a-tete 
upon  the  two  beds  which  occupy  my  chamber,  nei- 
ther of  us  capable  of  reading  to  the  other,  nor,  a 
great  part  of  the  time,  of  speaking;  I  ill  from  the 
effects  of  the  cramp,  he  from  the  fatigue  of  taking 
care  of  me  with  it.  From  this  state  we  were  com- 
pelled to  rouse  ourselves,   by   having  one  domestic 

taken  sick,  and  Nanny All  the  rest  you  know." 

This  was  said  in  1834.  In  the  autumn  of  that  year 
a  daughter  was  born;  and  for  a  time  Mrs.  Ware 
was  so  helpless,  that  she  yielded  more  than  was  her 
wont  to  feelings  of  discouragement.  "  I  did  try 
to  be  hopeful ;  but  the  idea  of  so  long  a  period  of 
uselessness,  and  its  consequent  evils  to  my  children 
and  family,  was  dreadful  to  me ;  and  I  could  not 
quite  feel  that  I  could  receive  it  as  patiently  "as  I 
ought."  But  severely  does  she  chide  herself  for  this 
distrust,  especially  as  the  result  was  so  much  better 
than  her  fears.     tShe  regained  her  health,  and  soon 


5i80  LIFE    IN    CAMURIDGE. 

enjoyed  a  greater  sense  of  strength  and  energy  ttian 
she  had  had  since  her  marriage.  And  this  period  of 
exemption  —  though  not  very  long  as  regarded  the 
health  of  all  the  household  —  was  one  of  the  seasons 
in  which  she  strove  to  make  amends  for  lost  time, 
and  accomplished  a  vast  deal.  Not  that  there  was 
any  remarkable,  visible  product.  She  never  labored 
for  one  object  exclusively,  in  doors  or  out,  and  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  point  to  definite  results.  It 
may  be  doubted  if  she  ever  thought  much  of  results, 
or  expected,  or  even  desired,  to  see  them  in  any  sure 
and  signal  form.  To  do  "  all  she  could  "  was  her 
only  ambition;  and  she  had  the  wisdom  which  is 
worth  more  than  any  other, —  to  be  content  with  do- 
ing all  she  could,  only  taking  care  that  that  word 
"  all "  should  take  in  something  more  than  the 
thought  of  earth,  or  self.  She  did  not  forget  that 
objects  and  interests  have  a  relative,  as  well  as  posi- 
tive importance ;  and  probably  all  who  knew  her  well 
have  marked  this  as  a  characteristic  trait,  —  that  she 
studied  the  exact  proportion  of  the  different  claims 
upon  her  time,  and  was  more  anxious  to  do  justly 
than  to  do  all  things. 

In  our  times,  and  in  a  position  like  Mr.  Ware's, 
there  were  sure  to  be  numerous  calls  and  claims 
abroad  as  well  as  at  home,  and  for  a  woman  not 
less  than  a  man.  We  have  not  inquired  as  to  the 
names  or  number  of  the  benevolent  societies  and 
industrial  enterprises  in  Cambridge,  in  which  Mrs. 
Ware  took  part.  That  she  gained  any  notoriety  in 
this  way,  we  should  be  surprised  to  hear,  both  from 
her  multiplicity  of  duties,  and  her  preference  of  pri- 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  281 

vate  to  public  activity.  Yet  that  her  influence  was 
felt,  her  judgment  peculiarly  relied  upon,  and  her 
presence  always  welcomed,  in  these  connections,  we 
know.  Cases  of  moral  want  and  exposure  interested 
her  most,  and  we  have  reason  to  think  that  she  was 
never  without  some  such  case  on  her  hands  or  in  her 
heart.  What  she  could  not  do  herself,  in  the  gift  of 
time  or  clothes  or  money,  she  always  induced  others 
to  do,  never  suffering  an  object  of  actual  want  or 
peril  to  go  unassisted.  Very  far  was  she  above  the 
poor  apology,  that  to  do  any  thing  for  one  sufferer 
will  create  more.  In  a  multitude  of  small  notes 
given  us,  written  by  her  to  various  neighbors  and 
friends,  we  chanced  to  see  in  one,  so  small  as  at  first 
to  be  overlooked,  a  few  words  that  fixed  attention  ; 
and  on  reading  it  through,  we  found,  in  the  compass 
of  a  few  lines,  a  whole  volume  of  illustration  as  to 
her  interest,  her  courage,  and  her  power  of  indigna- 
tion for  selfish  excuses.  We  give  it  just  as  it  was 
written  to  a  neighbor,  another  right-minded  woman. 
"  I  have  company,  therefore  cannot  answer  you  at 
length,  or  as  I  wish.  I  should  have  stepped  in  to 
see  you  this  afternoon,  if  I  had  not  been  prevented 
by  callers,  to  say  a  few  words  upon  the  subject  of  the 
latter  part  of  your  note.  I  have  to-day  got  at  the 
poor  man's  wardrobe  for  the  first  time,  and  deter- 
mined to  beg  far  some  means  to  supply  it  with  a  few 
decencies,  for  even  they  are  wanting.  Mr.  Ware  has 
thought  it  quite  allowable  to  state  the  case  to  one  or 
two  of  our  rich  men,  to  raise  enough  to  pay  the  ex- 
penses of  his  journey;  and  I  have  just  resolved  to 
undertake  the  other  matter.  But  lam  full  of  WTath- 
24* 


2S2  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

ful  indignation  at  being  sneered  at  for  taking  him  in. 
'  You  will  have  enough  English  beggars  at  your 
door,  if  you  do  so.'  A  good  argument  against  re- 
lieving any  distress !  So  let  the  poor  suffer  as  much 
as  they  may,  —  no  relief,  —  for  others  will  be  idle 
and  want  relief  too !  —  M.  L.  W." 

In  another  brief  note,  we  saw  a  statement  of  IVIrs. 
Ware,  to  the  effect  that  for  many  years  she  had  not 
been  without  some  "  case  of  intemperance  on  hand" ; 
and  a  little  inquiry  tells  us  that  it  refers  to  her  habit 
of  helping  the  reformed  and  the  struggling  to  get  an 
honest  living.  A  "  Ladies'  Aid  Society  "  had  been 
formed  in  Cambridge,  with  that  special  object;  and 
its  President,  being  obliged  to  leave  home,  asked 
Mrs.  Ware  to  look  after  her  "  patients,"  when  she 
found  that  Mary  had  long  been  doing  privately,  and 
by  herself,  what  they  were  doing  as  a  society. 

It  may  seem  the  language  of  enthusiastic  friend- 
ship, and  our  readers  will  deduct  what  they  please 
on  that  account,  but  we  must  give  a  passage  from  a 
recent  letter,  written  by  one  of  the  many  theological 
students  who  had  free  access  to  Mr.  Ware's  house 
and  family.  In  reference  to  Mrs.  Ware,  he  writes : 
"  I  have  often  quoted  her  example  since  to  those  who 
make  the  cares  of  housekeeping  an  excuse  for  the 
neglect  of  all  public  offices.  She  seemed  to  keep 
house  better  than  any  body  else,  to  exercise  a  larger 
and  freer  hospitality,  to  make  her  tea-table  a  pleas- 
ant resort,  to  provide  more  simply  and  at  the  same 
time  more  attractively,  while,  after  all,  her  domestic 
cares  were  only  an  incident  in  her  daily  duties.  She 
seemed   to   have   time   for    every   great  out-door  or 


LIFE    IN    CAMDRIDGE.  283 

general  interest,  and  to  be  full  of  schemes  of  benev- 
olence and  kindness.  And  it  was  the  easy,  natural 
way  in  which  she  performed  these  double  functions 
that  gave  me  such  a  sense  of  her  power" 

In  regard  to  intercourse  with  general  society  and 
festive  gatherings,  Mary  Ware  was  often  drawn  to 
them,  not  less  by  a  social,  genial  temper  than  by  a 
sense  of  duty.  A  duty  even  there  she  recognized 
and  regarded ;  a  duty  secondary,  certainly,  to  many 
others,  but  involving  obligation  when  other  duties 
came  not  in  the  way.  She  believed  that  society 
had  claims  as  well  as  the  family,  and  pure  enjoy- 
ment as  well  as  religion.  Her  social  sympathies  were 
always  calm,  but  never  cold;  subdued,  but  ardent, 
and  ever  ready  both  to  taste  and  impart  pleasure. 
Her  interest  in  children  was  a  passion,  and  her  love 
of  seeing  and  promoting  their  enjoyment  as  intense 
as  any  we  have  known.  She  could  ill  brook  any  re- 
straint put  upon  the  freedom  and  joyousness  of  the 
young,  beyond  the  point  of  propriety  or  others'  com- 
fort. Her  own  convenience,  her  rooms,  her  whole 
house,  she  would  give  up,  adding  her  powers  of  en- 
tertainment and  enjoyment,  rather  than  make  life 
cheerless  or  religion  repulsive.  Many  scenes  can 
we  recall  of  childish  glee  and  hearty  frolic,  presided 
over,  shared,  and  promoted  by  both  the  heads  of  that 
house,  with  which  are  associated  some  of  the  hap- 
piest hours  of  life,  and  the  best.  We  will  always 
thank  God  that  those  two  hearts,  which  He  was 
pleased  to  chasten  with  many  sicknesses  and  sor- 
rows, were  as  genial  and  joyous  as  they  were  pure 
and  humble. 


284  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

There  was  one  form  of  social  entertainment  —  if 
it  deserve  the  name  —  with  which  Mrs.  Ware  had 
no  sympathy,  and  for  which  she  had  little  charity. 
Indeed,  that  "  indignation "  which  we  have  seen 
enkindled  by  selfishness,  though  not  easily  roused, 
could  not  always  restrain  itself  in  the  hearing  of 
Fmall  gossip  or  busy  scandal.  We  said  in  the  in- 
troduction to  this  Memoir,  that  not  a  single  line  or 
word  allied  to  those  petty  vices  have  we  found  in 
the  whole  extent  of  her  correspondence,  sober  or 
trivial.  We  are  sure  the  same  might  be  said  of  her 
conversation.  Nor  was  this  negative  only.  There 
was  a  tone  of  decided  displeasure,  and,  if  necessary, 
pointed  reproof,  called  forth  at  times  by  the  spiteful 
or  thoughtless  scandal-monger.  She  would  not  allow 
that  we  have  a  ri^ht  to  be  thoughtless  ;  nor  did  she 
believe  that  we  were  sent  into  the  world  to  scan  a 
neighbor's  conduct  or  impugn  another's  motives. 
In  a  letter  written  at  Cambridge  to  a  friend  whom 
she  had  been  to  meet  in  Boston,  but  with  whom  her 
enjoyment  had  been  greatly  interrupted,  she  thus 
expresses  herself. 

"  It  is  only  tantalizing  to  meet  in  Boston,  to  frit- 
ter away  the  few  moments  of  intercourse  which  we 
want  for  better  purposes  in  the  idle,  profitless  gossip 
of  city  life.  Is  it  because  I  have  so  little  interest  in 
other  people,  or  is  it  for  a  better  reason,  that  I  have 
no  patience  with  hearing  people  descant  upon  the 
whys  and  wherefores  of  their  neighbors'  concerns  ; 
discussing  their  actions  with  as  decided  judgment 
upon  their  merits,  as  if  the  secret  springs  of  thought, 
and  all  the  various*  causes  which  led  to  them,  were 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  285 

as  fully  developed  to  us  as  they  can  be  to  the  Om- 
niscient only  ?  I  know  we  may  learn  much  from 
others'  experience,  bolh  in  warning  and  example; 
and  to  do  this,  we  must  closely  observe  them,  and 
follow  or  vary  from  their  course  as  our  own  con- 
science and  judgment  may  dictate.  But  surely  it  is 
not  necessary  that  we  should  be  all  the  time  specu- 
lating and  gossiping  with  each  other,  upon  every 
portion  of  the  lives  of  our  neighbors,  or  such  portions 
as  cannot  from  their  very  nature  be  of  any  impor- 
tance to  us  in  any  way.  Is  it  just  to  our  minds  so 
to  employ  them  ?  Is  it  Christian  charity  towards 
others  ?  I  may  see  clearly  my  neighbor's  faults, 
and  if  there  be  any  chance  of  doing  him  good  by  it, 
I  may  speak  of  them  to  him  freely.  I  may  consult 
a  friend,  who  I  know  will  treat  the  subject  with  the 
same  tender  feeling  that  I  have  myself,  upon  all 
the  views  which  could  result  in  good  to  the  guilty  or 
ourselves.  But  to  talk  publicly  to  any  and  all  about 
the  matter,  for  no  possible  result  but  the  getting  rid 
of  so  much  time,  fostering  contempt  on  the  one 
hand  and  self-conceit  on  the  other,  seems  to  me  the 
wickedest  abuse  of  the  high  privilege  of  speech  that 
I  know  of,  next  to  absolute  falsehood.  And  how 
often  does  this  habit  lead  to  falsehood,  and  all  man- 
ner of  injustice  ! But  enough.      Perhaps   I 

am  too  much  of  a  recluse  to  judge  justly  of  the 
temptations  of  city  life,  and  am  committing  the  very 
sin  which  I  am  condemning.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
thus  was  my  whole  comfort  in  town  destroyed,  and 
I  came  home  feeling  that,  so  far  as  regarded  our 
knowledge  of  each  other's  inner  woman,  we  might 
as  well  not  have  met." 


286  LIFE    IN    CAMDRIDGE. 

With  all  the  variety  of  the  Cambridge  life,  there 
was  necessarily  a  sameness  which  makes  it  needless 
to  mark  every  year,  or  follow  exactly  the  order  of 
events.  The  chief  "  events  "  of  these  twelve  years 
were  the  death  of  one  child,  the  birth  of  four,  and  the 
variations  of  health  and  sickness  to  both  parents. 
In  the  experience  of  sickness,  the  year  1836  brought 
one  of  the  sorest  visitations.  We  subjoin  Mrs. 
Ware's  account  of  it  soon  after  its  occurrence,  and 
her  review  of  the  year  at  its  close. 

"  Cambridge,  May  29,  1836. 

"  My  dear  N : 

*' You  have  heard,  no  doubt,  enough   of  the 

outline  of  our  story  to  have  traced  us  in  all  our  outward 
movements.  But  you  cannot  know  what  rich  experience 
the  last  four  months  have  brought  to  us,  and  the  compass 
of  a  letter  can  tell  you  litde.  The  first  stroke  was  a  heavy 
one.  Henry  had  been  very  well  all  winter,  and  had  gained 
a  degree  of  strength  and  ability  to  labor  unharmed,  which, 
in  our  most  sanguine  moments,  we  never  even  hoped  for, 
so  that  the  disappointment  was  even  greater  than  when  he 
was  taken  ill  at  Ware,  as  the  height  from  which  he  fell  was 
greater.  He  was  attacked,  for  the  first  time  since  that, 
upon  the  lungs  ;  and  when,  for  the  first  few  days,  it  seemed 
quite  reasonable  to  expect  that  the  consequences,  if  not 
even  more  alarming,  would  be  at  least  as  lasting  as  those 
which  followed  the  former  attack,  the  prospect  was  heart- 
sickening.  It  required  the  industrious  use  of  all  the  few 
moments  of  thought  1  could  borrow  from  my  occupations, 
to  gather  strength  enough  to  nerve  me  for  the  calm  con- 
templation of  the  picture. 

"  His  own  view  of  the  case  was  a  very  reasonable  one  ; 
and  the  calmness  with  which  he  looked  at  the  improbability 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  287 

of  recovery,  was  at  once  an  aid  and  a  source  of  high  enjoy- 
ment to  me.  A  few  weeks,  however,  gave  us  more  en- 
couragement; the  attack  was  not  a  severe  one,  and  yielded 
readily  to  the  remedies  applied.  And  although  we  could 
not  but  look  forward  to  a  long  confinement  at  that  season 
of  the  year,  there  was  much  in  his  state  to  give  us  pleasure. 
His  mind  is  always,  when  he  begins  to  recover,  in  a  very 
animated  state,  very  active,  and  upon  the  most  entertaining 
subjects.  This  time  he  injured  his  eyes  by  looking  over 
newspapers  and  books,  in  the  early  part  of  his  illness ;  so 
that,  as  soon  as  my  most  arduous  duties  as  nurse  ceased,  I 
had  to  commence  those  of  reader  and  amanuensis.  I  never 
was  so  literary  in  my  life.  I  did  nothing  but  read  and 
write  ;  nor  have  I  done  much  else  since,  for  he  cannot  yet 
do  either  for  himself.  Thus  passed  ten  weeks,  a  period 
equal  to  our  whole  residence  at  Ware  and  Worcester  ;  and 
yet,  owing  to  the  difference  of  the  season,  he  could  not  get 
out  of  his  room  more  than  once  or  twice  a  week,  when  he 
was  carried  in  arms  to  a  carriage.  At  this  time,  too,  1 
sunk  for  a  short  term,  not  with  disease,  but  exhaustion  from 
confinement  and  incessant  effort  of  some  kind  or  other.  I 
soon  got  rested  ;  but  whether  from  the  interruption  which 
this  caused  to  Henry's  literary  employments,  or  because 
the  time  had  come  for  a  change,  I  know  not,  —  his  own 
animation  ceased,  and  he  seemed  in  danger  of  losing  all 
his  energy  and  strength  for  the  want  of  air  and  exercise 
I  had  hoped  that  he  would  be  sent  to  a  warmer  re 
gion  as  soon  as  he  had  strength  to  get  there,  for  air  and 
exercise  are  always  essential  to  his  recovery.  But  he 
dragged  on,  until  I  was  not  willing  to  be  submissive  any 
longer  ;  and  I  begged  that  he  might  go  to  New  York  at 
least,  for  a  city  is  so  much  more  protected  than  the  coun- 
try, that  he  could  walk  there  in  weather  that  would  have 
kept  him  in  here.     I  went  to  New  York  with  him,  but  could 


y8S  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

not  well  stay  ;  and  as  he  was  in  a  second  home  there,  it 
did  not  seem  necessary.  He  came  home  just  in  time  to  sit 
down  by  a  fire  during  this  long  storm  !  It  was  most  un- 
lucky, but  cannot  be  helped.  Were  it  possible,  I  would  go 
off  with  him  as  soon  as  the  sun  shines,  to  keep  him  from 
going  to  work.  I  never  say  any  thing  is  impossible^  but  it 
seems  to  me  next  to  it  that  I  should  leave  home  now.  All 
my  five  children  are  at  home,  —  to  say  nothing  of  not  hav- 
ing attended  to  any  of  my  domestic  duties  since  last  Janu- 
ary; —  a  little  sewing  to  be  done,  you  may  fancy.  Still, 
if  it  is  necessary  to  go,  some  way  of  effecting  it  will  pre- 
«»ent  itself. 

"  Yours  in  all  true  love. 

"  Mary  L.  Ware." 

"Boston,  December  31,  1836. 
Salurday  Night. 

"  My  dear  N : 

"  What  a  crowd  of  recollections  rush  upon  my  mind  as 
I  date  this  letter !  It  is  nine  years  since  I  have  affixed 
'  Boston  '  to  this  annual  epistle  ;  and  the  last  '  Saturday 
night'  which  found  mc  thus  occupied  was  eleven  years 
ago,  at  Osmotherly,  1825 ;  and  the  last  time  I  wrote  the 
whole  date  was  to  a  note  which  accompanied  a  pair  of 
pegged  gloves  which  I  sat  up  till  midnight  to  finish  for  your 
brother,  in  1814.  What  an  interesting  and  varied  picture 
do  these  dates  present  to  my  mind's  eye,  and  how  many 
remembrances  are  associated  with  them  of  joy  and  sorrow, 
of  trial  and  happiness  !  I  could  willingly  spend  hours  in  re- 
calling all  in  detail,  and  I  feci  as  if  it  would  do  us  both  good, 
should  I  do  so  ;  for  I  find  that,  in  the  full  occupation  of  the 
present,  the  lessons  of  the  past  are  losing  their  power  over 
me.  Their  voice  cannot  be  heard  in  the  busy  bustle  of  life; 
and  it  is  only  at  a  few  favored  moments  like  these,  when  a»i 
creation  within  and  around  us  pauses,  as  it  were,  before  tak- 


LIFE    IN    CAMBrj-DHK.  289 

iijg  another  onward  step  towards  eternity,  that  we  can  hear 
their  distant,  solemn  murmur.  It  is  good,  then,  to  turn  our 
hearts  to  the  leaching,  and  to  fix  in  them  more  deeply 
the  warning  and  encouragement  which  we  may  thut  re-, 
ceive 

"  I  have  been  led  lately  to  think  more  than  usual  of 
the  past,  by  Mrs.  B 's  death.  I  believe  I  do  not  ex- 
aggerate when  I  rest  in  the  idea  that  she  was  a  woman  of 
rare  powers  to  interest  and  influence  those  around  her. 
My  own  recollections  bring  with  them  a  sense  of  almost 
romantic  enthusiasm  with  regard  to  her ;  and  I  am  quite 
sure  that  I  owe  as  much  of  my  conception  of  the  loveliness 
of  a  truly  religious  being  to  her  exhibition  of  it,  as  to  any 
one  other  source.  With  the  thought  of  her  in  her  glory, 
comes  the  remembrance  of  many  who  have  been  taken 
from  time  to  time  from  our  communion  ;  and  it  amazes  me 
to  find  how  large  is  their  number.  How  soon  will  it  be, 
that  it  will  become  a  rare  thing  to  meet  one  of  the  com- 
panions of  our  childhood  ! Perhaps   I  generalize 

too  much  from  my  own  individual  experience  ;  but  I  find 
it  so  difficult  to  keep  before  my  eyes  the  uncertainty  of  life, 
or  to  feel  as  I  would  do  the  reality  of  the  spiritual  world, 
so  busy  am  I  with  the  occupations  of  this  material  one,  that 
I  should  like  to  be  recalled  to  the  subject  by  some  irresisti- 
ble voice  every  hour  of  the  day. 

"  I  have  spent  this  evening  in  our  old  church  at  the 
North  End,  for  the  first  time  upon  this  occasion  since  I 
lived  in  Sheafe  Street,  when  Henry  preached  ;  and  as  I 
look  back  upon  the  experience  I  have  had  since  that  time, 
it  seems  to  me  I  have  little  hope  of  ever  being  what  I  ought 
to  be,  when  all  this  has  had  so  little  effect. 

"  January  9.      Yesterday,  heard  Dr.  Channing  preach 
and  administer  the  communion,  the  latter  of  which  is  more 
25 


290 


LIFE    IN     CAMDRIDGK. 


10  me  than  even  his  best  sermons,  so  great  is  the  piiwci  of 

association I  find  I  almost  lose  sight  of  some  of  my 

best  pleasures^  when  I  have  been  for  any  length  of  time  free 
from  great  trial.  In  truth,  all  this  nomenclature  is  wrong. 
Ease  and  prosperity  make  our  greatest  trial ;  we  are  never 
more  blessed  than  when  we  are  said  to  be  in  affliction,  h 
is  remarkable,  that  not  one  year  has  passed  since  I  began 
this  custom  of  recording  to  you  these  mercies,  that  there 
has  not  been  some  striking  one  on  the  list.  What  is  to 
come  this  year  ?  God  knows  ;  and  in  this  I  can  rest  satis- 
fied. Henry's  eyes  are  useless,  and  mine  still  in  requisi- 
tion ;  of  course  I  do  nothing  else,  except  at  odd  moments, 
when  he  is  away  or  asleep. 

"  Mary." 

Mr.  Ware's  severe  illness  at  this  period  seems  to 
have  been  a  crisis  ;  for  the  two  following  years,  both 
with  him  and  her,  were  probably  the  best  of  all  they 
passed  at  Cambridge,  in  their  freedom  from  sick- 
ness, their  ability  to  work,  and  the  amount  of  their 
work.  We  connect  them  in  this  respect,  for  it  is 
not  easy  to  separate  their  spheres  and  agencies,  even 
in  regard  to  his  professional  labors.  Of  course,  we 
mean  to  imply  nothing  as  to  any  special  mental  aid , 
for  no  woman  ever  made  less  pretension,  or  less  at- 
tempt, at  any  thing  more  than  could  be  done  by 
every  sensible  and  interested  mind.  But  so  com- 
pletely did  she  enter  into  all  his  engagements,  so 
constantly  did  she  watch  the  degree  of  his  strength 
and  the  effect  of  his  exertions,  and  so  often  was  she 
called  to  assist  him  directly,  as  reader  or  writer,  from 
the  failure  of  his  eyes  and  his  frequent  debility,  that 
her  cooperation  was  not  wholly  a  figure  of  speech. 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  291 

Then,  too^  her  heart  was  as  much  enlisted  in  the 
welfare  and  success  of  his  pupils  in  the  Theological 
School,  as  it  had  been  in  his  Boston  parish.  All 
that  she  had  a  right  to  know,  she  did  know ;  all  that 
a  woman  and  friend  could  do  for  those  pupils,  in 
sympathy,  counsel,  encouragement,  or  personal  aid, 
she  invariably  did.  A  son,  then  a  member  of  the 
School,  says  of  her :  "  As  a  Professor's  wife,  I  do 
not  think  father's  heart  was  more  in  the  School  than 
was  hers.  I  suspect  she  knew  every  thing  about  it, 
and  was  his  constant  assistant  and  counsellor.  How 
much  directly  she  had  to  do  with  the  young  men,  I 
cannot  say.  They  were  encouraged  to  be  at  the 
house,  came  to  tea  constantly  by  invitation,  and  in 

all  sicknesses  she  cared  for  them ;  especially  M 

and  B ,  who  were   brought  to  the   house,   and 

C ,  and  also  an  undergraduate,  sick.     She  did 

what  she  could  for  the  destitute  among  them ;  and 
I  remember  her  getting  shirts  made,  &c.,  &c.  I  re- 
member, too,  the  delicate  way  in  which  I  was  sent, 
on  a  cold  New  Year's  evening,  with  a  large  bundle 
to  an  undergraduate  who  was  friendless  and  penni- 
less." There  are  others,  and  many,  who  could  tell 
much  more  ;  and  whose  recollections  of  her  delicate 
sympathy,  generous  aid,  and  unpretending  good- 
ness, will  hardly  suffer  them  to  speak  of  her,  but 
with  silent  tears.  They  felt  her  moral  power ;  and 
all  the  more,  because  she  seemed  utterly  unconscious 
of  it.  "  Never  have  I  been  with  her,"  writes  one, 
who  says  he  had  but  a  common  acquaintance,  "  no 
matter  how  short  the  time  or  slight  the  occasion, 
without  the  feeling  of  greater  elevation  of  soul.     I 


21)2  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

never  knew  one  of  whom  this  were  truer.  Virtue 
came  out  of  her."  And  he  only  adds,  of  one  con- 
nected with  him,  "  Even  now  the  thought  of  Mrs. 
Ware  moves  her  more  than  the  presence  of  any  liv- 
ing friend." 

While  writing  these  passages,  we  have  received 
the  testimony  of  another  of  those  students,  more 
extended,  but  too  pertinent  and  valuable  to  be 
abridged. 

"  The  members  of  the  Theological  School  were 
always  sure  of  her  sympathy.  They  went  to  her  as 
they  would  to  an  elder  sister.  There  was  something 
peculiarly  engaging  and  attractive  about  her,  which 
we  all  felt,  but  could  not  well  understand.  Yet  she 
did  not  encourage,  as  some  kind-hearted  women  do, 
the  morbid  sensibilities  of  young  men,  which,  even 
while  apparently  depreciating  their  own  powers,  al- 
most always  have  their  origin  in  an  exaggerated 
egotism  or  some  masked  form  of  selfishness.  Mrs. 
Ware's  peculiar  excellence  was,  that,  without  en- 
couraging such  a  state  of  mind  and  without  repel- 
ling those  who  had  cherished  it,  she,  by  the  healthi- 
ness of  her  own  mind  and  the  cheerful  disinterested- 
ness of  her  character,  dissolved  the  gloomy  spell,  and 
sent  away  her  visitors  with  new  hope  and  life.  It 
was  the  atmosphere  in  which  she  lived,  more  than 
any  particular  words  or  acts,  that  made  her  presence 
in  Cambridge  so  attractive,  and  so  beneficent  to  the 
young  at  that  period  of  life  when  they  are  likely  to 
be  in  a  morbid  condition.  To  go  from  our  rooms 
to  her  house,  when  we  had  got  discouraged  or  worn 
down,  was  like  going  into  a  difl'erent  climate.     And 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  293 

we  went  oack,  like  invalids  who  have  been  spend- 
ing a  winter  at  the  South,  with  new  vitality  in  our 
veins. 

"  While  connected  with  the  School,  in  1834,  I  had 
a  short  but  violent  attack  of  brain  fever.  I  was  in 
Divinity  Hall,  and  very  kindly  taken  care  of  by  my 
associates  in  the  School,  who  did  for  me  every  thing 
that  young  men  know  how  to  do  in  such  a  case. 
After  a  few  days,  Mrs.  Ware  came  to  see  me.  The 
bare  sight  of  her  countenance,  and  the  sweet,  gen- 
tle tones  of  her  voice,  I  shall  never  forget.  They 
changed  the  whole  aspect  of  the  room.  As  soon  as 
it  could  be  done,  I  was  removed  to  her  house.  And 
the  delicacy  of  her  touch,  as  in  my  helplessness  she 
washed  my  hands  and  face,  with  the  air  of  motherly 
cheerfulness  and  tenderness,  was  to  my  diseased 
nerves  like  the  ministry  of  one  from  a  better  world. 
During  the  months  of  confinement  and  extreme  de- 
bility which  succeeded,  the  remembrance  of  her  kind- 
ness was  a  constant  source  of  comfort,  and  I  cannot 
now  recall  it  without  deep  and  grateful  emotion." 

In  connection  with  exertions  for  others,  it  is  but 
just  to  refer  again  to  the  laborious  efforts,  self-denial, 
and  perpetual  solicitude,  to  which  Mrs.  Ware  was 
driven,  at  home,  in  regard  to  pecuniary  means.  The 
difficulty  came  at  last  to  its  height.  They  found  it 
impossible  to  live  as  they  did,  and  yet  impossible  to 
retrench  more  than  they  always  had.  We  would 
not  speak  of  this  so  freely,  did  we  not  feel  —  beside 
the  ^ight  it  throws  upon  character  and  results  —  that 
it  is  due  to  the  professors  and  ministers  of  all  denom- 
inations, whose  energies  are  crippled,  and  power  of 
25* 


20t  LIFE     IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

serving  as  well  as  enjoying  sadly  abridged,  by  the 
conflicting  facts  of  unreasonable  demand  and  incom- 
petent support.  Those  of  us  who  do  not  suffer,  and 
are  only  grateful,  have  the  better  right  to  speak  for 
others ;  and  we  speak  in  the  memory,  and  as  by  the 
authority,  of  those  two  unsparing  and  noble  workers, 
whose  sentiments  on  the  subject  we  well  know,  and 
whose  power  of  usefulness  should  never  have  been 
hampered,  as  it  often  was,  by  the  want  of  means 
which  hundreds  were  both  able  and  willing  to  fur- 
nish. Yes,  willing ;  for  it  is  no  want  oi  generosity  that 
we  speak  of;  were  we  capable  of  that  injustice,  espe- 
cially in  the  community  and  the  family  under  review, 
we  should  expect  almost  to  hear  the  reproof  of  the 
departed  ones,  whose  gratitude  was  as  intense  as 
their  solicitude.  Not  for  themselves  did  they  feel, 
but  for  others;  for  the  School,  for  the  ministry;  for 
the  students  who  were  prevented  from  entering  the 
School,  or  forced  to  leave  it,  by  poverty  and  the  fear 
of  debt,  some  of  whom  were  retained  only  by  prom- 
ises of  aid,  whose  fulfilment  cost  added  labor  and 
wearing  anxiety.  There  is  better  provision  now,  we 
know  ;  ample  provision  for  those  willing  to  accept  it. 
Still  are  there  wants  and  straits  in  the  actual  minis- 
try, which  are  not  dnly  considered.  And  this  it  is 
that  is  needed, —  not  generosity  in  the  few,  but  con 
sideration  in  the  many,  and  the  cooperation  of  all 
If  the  institutions  of  the  Gospel  are  worth  having, 
they  are  worth  supporting.  If  young  men  are  ex- 
pected to  engage  in  a  service  that  becomes  every 
year  more  perplexed  and  exacting,  they  must  be  able 
to  see  a  fair  prospect  of  such  remuneration  and  sym- 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  295 

pathy  as  will  at  least  set  them  free  from  worldly 
anxiety.  We  believe  that  in  no  one  way  can  the 
ministry  be  more  strengthened  and  elevated,  than  by 
a  consideration  and  provision,  not  extravagant,  not 
large,  not  perhaps  proportioned  to  the  labor  and  re- 
ward of  other  callings,  but  sure ;  and  sufficient,  while 
it  imposes  the  necessity  of  all  the  exertion,  prudence, 
simplicity,  and  sacrifice  that  should  be  expected  and 
be  seen  in  the  service  of  Christ,  to  save  from  all  de- 
pression, and  the  necessity  of  other  pursuits. 

Is  this  a  digression  ?  No ;  for  it  entered  into  the 
daily  thought,  and  affected  the  life,  not  only  of  Henry 
Ware,  but  equally  of  her  whose  life  was  his,  and 
whose  spirit  was  always  striving  to  allay  his  fears, 
and  nurse  his  powers  and  resources.  Reluctantly 
did  she  consent  to  his  taking  upon  himself  new  bur- 
dens and  extended  responsibilities,  as  he  did  in  1838, 
when  his  father  resigned  to  him  his  active  duties, 
by  a  liberal  arrangement  made  for  both  of  them. 
"  While  this  makes  us  very  grateful,"  she  writes,  "  it 
involves  more  anxiety  about  health ;  but  we  will 
trust." 

Just  at  the  time  of  these  new  offices  and  brighter 
hopes  on  the  one  hand,  and  increased  labor  and 
danger  on  the  other,  a  heavy  affliction  fell  upon  them 
both,  in  the  sudden  death  of  a  sister ;  the  first  death 
in  thirty  years  of  an  adult  member  of  that  family, 
from  which  six  have  since  gone  to  the  spirit-land. 
Ought  any  considerations  to  prevent  our  giving  to 
others  the  Christian  thoughts  and  high  affections 
called  forth  from  Mrs.  Ware  by  that  event?  They 
were   many   and    comforting.     Some    she    thus    ex- 


296  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

pressed  to  Mrs.  Allen,  a  surviving  sister.  "  The 
more  I  dwell  upon  what  she  was,  of  what  she  was 
capable,  and  how  deeply  she  suffered  from  the  mere 
load  of  humanity,  the  more  I  am  thankful  that  the 
season  of  discipline  is  over,  the  more  I  rejoice  at  the 
thought  of  what  she  is  now  enjoying.  Can  we  con- 
i,ceive  of  a  higher  bliss  than  that  which  must  be  expe- 
rienced by  a  soul  of  such  capacities  as  hers,  which 
has  struggled,  as  we  believe,  most  strenuously  with 
temptation  both  within  and  without  while  here,  freed 
at  last  for  ever  from  the  burden  of  the  flesh,  throw- 
ing off  all  obstacles  to  its  progress  in  a  purer  state, 
bounding  forward  to  perfection  ?  O,  who  would  re- 
call her  here,  even  for  the  best  happiness  which  this 
world  could  give  her  ?  But  we  are  yet  too  earthly 
to  part  with  our  treasures  without  suffering.  It  is 
meant  that  we  should  suffer.  It  is  a  part,  a  most 
important  object,  of  the  dispensation ;  the  inevitable 
consequence,  too,  of  that  which  we  esteem  the  best 
blessing  of  our  existence,  —  our  capacity  for  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  affections.  It  seems  as  if  so  great  an 
event  as  I  feel  this  to  be  must  have  great  objects ; 
and  who  can  doubt  that  the  improvement  of  those 
who  suffer  by  it  is  the  principal  one  ?  I  have  nevei 
felt  this  so  deeply  with  regard  to  any  event  that  ever 
happened  to  me  in  life.  I  have  never  had  so  loud, 
so  imperious  a  call.  O  my  God,  give  me  grace  to 
profit  by  this  call,  to  be  made  better  by  the  mental 
exercises  to  which  it  has  given  rise  I" 

At  the  end  of  ISoS  we  find  Mary  very  happy,  in 
gratitude  for  the  past  and  cheerful  hopes  of  the  fu- 
ture, with  sober  but  not  sad  thoughts  of  the  recent 
sorrow. 


LIFE    IN     CAMBRIDUE.  297 

"  Cambridge,  December  31,  1838. 

"  My  dear  N : 

" O  that  blessed  thing,  Faith,  —  faith  in  the  truth 

of  friendship  !  Among  other  changes,  I  have  not  yet  grown 
old  enough  to  lose  my  youthful  faith  in  those  I  love  ;  and 
between  you  and  me,  I  begin  to  suspect  that  I  never  shall. 
I  certainly  do  not  find  myself,  at  forty,  one  whit  nearer 
misanthropy  than  I  was  at  sixteen.  Is  this  symptomatic  of 
folly  at  the  very  core  >  Or  is  it  only  the  effect  of  my  su- 
perior good  luck  in  life  }  Whatever  it  may  be,  I  bless  God 
for  it,  for  I  find  in  it  too  much  happiness  to  be  willing  to 
regret  it,  even  if  it  be  a  weakness. 

'■'■January  9.  Just  so  far- had  I  got,  when  I  found  my 
eyes  so  dim  and  my  head  so  giddy  that  I  was  compelled 
to  go  to  bed.  And  there  have  I  been  most  of  the  time 
since,  quite  sick  with  one  of  my  old  attacks  upon  the  lungs, 
which  threatened  to  keep  me  there  the  rest  of  the  winter,  if 
it  did  not  end  in  lung  fever,  so  obstinate  and  violent  was 

my  cough I  have  been  living  in  the   past  very 

much  lately,  from  having  many  of  Harriet's  letters  to  read. 
Some  of  them,  written  in  Exeter,  have  brought  before  my 
mind  people  of  whom  I  had  not  thought  for  years ;  and 
circumstances  having  intimate  connection  with  events  in 
which  I  was  immediately  interested  at  the  time,  have  un- 
folded a  long  and  beautiful  page  of  life  before  me,  which  I 
seldom  have  opportunity  to  recall.  O  that  Past !  what 
stores  of  wisdom  and  happiness  are  not  laid  up  in  it !  Why 
should  it  be  that  the  busy  bustle  of  the  Present  hides  it  so 
mach  from  our  sight }  Should  we  not,  by  an  effort,  give 
ourselves  more  to  its  retrospection,  that  we  may  profit  more 
by  its  teaching  ? 

"  But  here  we  are,  dear  N.,  at  the  end  of  another  year, 
certainly  not  growing  younger,  yet  I  think  not  at  all  losing 


298  LIFF.     IN    CAMBUIDGE. 

our  capacity  for  enjoying.  So  far  from  it,  I  am  surprised 
to  find,  that,  while  with  regard  to  some  things  my  happiness 
becomes  more  and  more  every  day  a  sober  certainty,  it 
does  not  in  the  least  diminish  my  susceptibility  of  enjoy- 
ment from  any  new  source  that  chances  to  present  itself 
from  day  to  day.  In  fact,  it  is  a  much  more  agreeable 
thing  to  grow  old  than  I  expected  to  find  it.  This  is  not 
strange,  you  may  say,  in  my  case,  whose  blessings  increase 
with  every  year.  Truly  it  is  so,  and  I  never  felt  it  more 
than  at  this  present.  Never  since  I  was  married  could  I 
look  back  upon  a  year  of  such  freedom  from  sickness  in 
my  own  family  ;  never  was  my  husband  so  well  for  the 
same  length  of  time  in  his  preaching  life ;  and  if  I  had  no 
more  to  be  grateful  for  than, my  precious  baby,  who  has 
been  nothing  but  a  comfort  ever  since  she  was  born,  that  is 
enough  for  one  year.  One  sad  blight  has  passed  over  us, 
and  it  has  indeed  solemnized  our  hearts,  and  made  us  feel, 
as  we  never  felt  before,  by  how  slight  a  tenure  we  hold  all 
earthly  blessings.  But  these  afflictions  serve  to  make  us 
more  grateful  for  those  blessings  which  cannot  be  taken  away. 
"  O,'  how  I  do  wish  you  were  within  talking  distance,  that 
I  might  know  whether  you  feel  as  1  do  about  bringing  up 
children.  I  have  no  comfort  yet  in  my  management  of  my 
little  ones.  I  have  not  yet  got  upon  the  right  track,  and 
begin  to  think  I  never  shall.  Lucy  comes  and  comforts 
me  a  little  now  and  then,  and  if  I  had  her  power  I  should 
no  doubt  have  her  success ;  but  that  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence in  the  world. 

"  Yours  ever,  in  true  love. 

«M.  L.  W." 

Another  year  closed  its  record  with  similar  ex- 
pressions of  thankfulness,  though  we  see  that  it 
brought  sickness  and  discipline.     But  these  are  not 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  299 

spoken  of  as  trials ;  for  Mrs.  Ware  appears  in  fact, 
as  well  as  in  word,  to  have  caused  sickness  to  change 
its  name  and  its  face.  It  had  become  to  her  a 
friend,  whose  absence  she  almost  dreaded.  "  It  ia 
so  long  since  I  have  had  the  slightest  physical  draw- 
back, that  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  could  be 
other  than  strong.  I  am  glad  to  be  reminded  that  I 
am  not  free  from  the  common  lot  in  this  respect;  in- 
truth,  that  I  am  to  be  subject  to  the  salutary  disci- 
pline which  the  prospect  of  certain  suffering  and 
weakness,  with  all  their  possible  consequences,  brings 
to  the  soul."  She  had  great  faith  in  the  relation  of 
events  to  each  other.  She  looked  upon  nothing  in 
the  providence  of  God  as  either  accidental  or  insu- 
lated ;  every  thing  had  a  design  and  a  connection. 
"  If  any  one  thing  more  than  any  other  strikes  me 
powerfully  as  I  advance  in  life,  gaining  confirmation 
from  every  day's  experience,  it  is  the  beautiful  adap- 
tation of  circumstances  to  accomplish  the  great  ob- 
iect  of  existence,  each  succeeding  event  pointing  to 
some  end  which  the  other  events  of  life  have  not 
particularly  aimed  at.  It  seems  as  if  we  had  only 
to  keep  our  vision  clear,  to  find  around  us  all  the 
teaching  which  we  can  possibly  need  to  bring  us  to 
perfection."  She  had  not  much  respect  for  the  com- 
mon view  of  "  circumstances,"  as  securing  all  the 
good  and  accounting  for  all  the  evil  in  men's  con- 
duct and  character.  To  her  mind,  the  responsibility 
was  as  great  of  turning  adverse  circumstances  to 
good  account,  as  of  using  well  the  most  favoring 
and  prosperous  condition.  Yet  here  she  dealt  more 
severely  with   herself  than   with   any  one  else;  too 


300  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

severely  sometimes,  as  may  be  the  case  with  all  con- 
scientious sufferers  who  are  at  the  same  time  consci- 
entious workers.  They  exact  too  much  of  their  own 
frames.  They  make  too  little  allowance  for  those 
natural  limits  and  occasional  weaknesses,  for  which 
many  minds  allow  too  much.  Most  of  us  suffer  the 
body  to  be  master,  where  it  should  be  servant ;  while 
they  of  whom  we  speak  are  apt  to  forget  that  the 
body  ivill  sometimes  rule,  and  affect  the  mind  unfa- 
vorably yet  helplessly.  There  are  various  intima- 
tions, some  of  which  we  have  seen  already,  that 
Mrs.  Ware  was  not  free  from  all  errors  or  dangers  of 
this  kind,  though  she  soon  detected  them.  After  a 
short  visit  to  Mrs.  Paine,  in  1839,  she  says  of  it:  "1 
did  enjoy  my  visit  to  you  hugely ;  I  do  enjoy  it  now 
even  more ;  for  I  was  fighting  all  the  time  with  an 
evil  demon  within  in  the  shape  of  an  uncommonly 
violent  attack  of  '  Mary  Pickardism,'  making  me 
feel  that  I  might  as  well  be  out  of  the  worid  as  in  it. 
But  that  is  over ;  and  I  have  learnt  from  it  that  our 
minds  are  more  frequently  under  the  control  of  our 
physique^  than  we,  in  our  pride,  are  very  willing  to 
admit." 

The  season  of  exemption  and  favor  continues; 
not  without  qualifications  and  exceptions,  as  others 
might  think  them,  but  without  serious  interruption 
to  the  labors  or  joys  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ware.  And 
we  see  the  effect  of  it  in  the  pleasant  and  playful 
mood  of  the  next  letter. 

"  Cambridge,  January  1,  1841,  1.20  o'clock,  A.  M. 

"  My  dear  N : 

"  There  is  some  difTercncc  truly  between  a  solitary  spin 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  301 

ster  sitting  in  her  quiet  parlor  with  her  desk  before  her,  pen 
in  hand,  without  a  shadow  of  a  hope  or  fear  of  interruption 
from  any  demand  of  domestic  duty  or  pleasure,  and  the 
mother  of  seven  children,  one  of  them  a  most  agreeable 
youth  of  six  months,  with  a  husband  and  nurse  to  boot,  to 
be  looked  after  and  taken  care  of.  For  instance,  after  a 
vain  attempt  to  get  all  the  new  year's  presents  finished 
and  arrayed  in  due  order  before  the  clock  should  strike 
twelve  upon  the  31st  of  December,  1840,  I  was  obliged  at 
the  first  date  to  content  myself  with  just  recording  the 
hour  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  held  in  durance  the 
two  hands  of  the  above-named  youth,  who  had  been  for  the 
previous  hour  exercising  his  utmost  power  of  fascinating 
blandishment  to  attract  and  monopolize  my  attention.  And 
now  I  must  re-date,  One  o^clock,  P.  M.,  January  3d,  being 
my  very  first  moment,  since  the  aforesaid  date,  that  I  could 
in  conscience  give  to  the  luxurious  employment  of  writing 
to  you.  I  think  the  said  little  (or,  rather,  large)  gentleman 
had  a  strong  desire  to  write  to  you  himself,  or  he  would  not 
have  been  so  remarkably  wakeful  upon  that  occasion ;  but 
I  chose  to  enact  the  part  of  the  dog  in  the  manger,  —  if  I 
could  not  do  it  myself,  I  would  not  let  him.  He  is  a  most 
bewitching  creature,  by  the  way,  and  there  is  no  telling 
what  you  may  have  lost  by  my  selfishness.  Nothing  can 
be  sweeter  than  a  healthy,  bright  child  of  his  age ;  there  is 
certainly  something  far  beyond  the  mere  animal  in  the  en- 
joyment we  derive  from  such  a  creature.  I  am  some- 
times tempted,  when  I  watch  the  animated  expression  of  his 
little  visage,  to  go  all  lengths  with  the  modern  spiritualists, 
and  believe  that  there  is  a  higher  sense  and  fuller  knowl- 
edge of  the  deep  things  of  heaven  inclosed  in  that  little 
casket  now,  than  can  be  found  in  it  after  the  wisdom  of  the 

world  has  entered  there 

"  O,  how  the  business  of  life  thickens  as  one  goes  on* 
26 


302  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

ward  !  I  sometimes  wish  I  knew  whether  there  is  evei 
to  be  such  a  thing  as  rest  in  this  life  for  me,  wherein  to 
breathe  a  little  more  freely,  and  feel  it  right  to  forget,  for  a 
moment  at  least,  the  care  of  the  earthly.  Or  I  should  like 
still  better  to  know  how  far  it  is  practicable  to  keep  one's 
mind  at  ease,  and  yet  do  all  that  ought  to  be  done.  It  does 
not  seem  as  if  it  could  have  been  intended  that  we  should 
be  the  careworn  drudges  that  most  of  us  are,  hardly  giving 
ourselves  time  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  world 
around  us,  or  know  any  thing  of  that  within  us.  I  have 
often  great  misgivings  upon  the  subject,  much  doubting 
whether  it  is  not,  after  all,  more  my  bad  management  than 
the  necessity  of  the  case,  which  makes  me  so  pressed  from 
want  of  time  to  do  what  I  wish.  But  I  have  looked  around 
and  within  in  vain  for  a  remedy  for  the  evil. 

"I  am  just  where  I  was  a  year  ago,  only  a  little  more 
involved  from  having  one  child  more,  and  that  one  that 
cannot  be  tended  by  any  one  who  is  not  tolerably  sizable 
herself.  This  is  not  as  it  should  be,  (not  my  baby,  but  my 
incessant  occupation,)  and  I  feel  the  evil  effect  upon  my 
intellectual  and  physical  too,  —  the  one  becomes  utterly 
empty,  the  other  too  crowded.  Thought  is  free,  happily, 
but  one  uses  up  the  material  for  thought  if  not  refreshed  by 
outward  subjects  occasionally  ;  or  rather  one's  thoughts 
take  too  uniform  a  track,  and  become  morbid.  I  should 
like  to  peep  into  some  other  person's  mind  and  see  how 
the  land  lies ;  one  is  apt  to  think  that  no  one  is  as  wicked 
as  himself,  but  perhaps  the  same  causes  lead  to  the  same 
results.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  know,  upon  the  old  prin- 
ciple, that  '  misery  loves  company.'     Yours, 

"  Mary." 

A  change  was  approaching.  The  favored  interval 
had  been  nnnsually  long,  and  an  amount  of  work 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  303 

nad  been  accomplished  of  which  we  attempt  not  to 
give  an  idea.  In  had  been  to  Mrs.  Ware,  as  to  her 
husband,  a  "golden  age,"  in  vigor,  labor,  and  eiijoy- 
m<Mit.  In  the  family,  the  school,  and  the  communi- 
ty, both  were  busy,  both  happy.  There  was  no  dimi- 
nution of  care,  rather  an  increase  with  an  increasing 
family,  unnumbered  visitors,  and  interruptions,  en- 
gagements, and  claims,  of  every  possible  kind.  But 
all  this  went  on  easily  and  naturally.  A  casual  ob- 
server would  not  be  likely  to  see  that  there  was 
much  done,  or  to  be  done.  There  was  no  hurry,  no 
apparent  exertion.  Each  caller  or  claimant  was  re- 
ceived so  quietly,  and  listened  to  so  patiently,  that 
he  might  have  thought  he  was  the  only  one,  or  the 
favored.  To  be  sure,  Mrs.  Ware  felt,  as  we  have 
seen,  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  rest,  nor  time 
to  do  the  half  that  she  would.  But  very  few  saw 
the  feeling,  and  it  prevented  neither  her  own  serenity 
nor  others'  enjoyment.  Very  grateful  did  she  feel 
for  her  husband's  continued  health  and  active  use- 
fulness. At  the  same  time,  we  can  see  that  her  ex- 
perienced eye  and  watchful  heart  discovered  symp- 
toms of  coming  change,  —  as  in  passages  of  her 
letters  of  different  dates. 

"  December  31,  1841.  I  look  at  my  husband  with 
a  sort  of  wonder,  to  find  that  another  whole  year 
has  passed  without  any  serious  consequences  to  his 
health.  I  dare  not  look  forward  for  him,  for  it  seems 
presumption  to  expect  that  he  can  be  long  exempt. 
His  duties  are  very  perplexing  from  their  variety, 
and  I  think  the  effect  uj)on  his  system,  by  harassing 
his  mind,  is  really  worse  than  a  greater  amount  of 


304  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

labor  would  be  upon  a  more  concentrated  and  satis" 
factory  object.  He  is  the  greater  part  of  the  time  in 
that  dragging,  half-sick  state,  which  leaves  neither 
freedom  of  mind  nor  comfort  of  body.  I  often  think 
he  could  be  happier,  and  do  in  fact  more  good,  in  a 
parish,  than  here ;  and  were  it  not  that  men  at  his 
time  of  life  get  to  be  too  old-fashioned  and  '  con- 
servative,' as  the  phrase  is,  to  suit  the  rising  genera- 
tion, I  should  hope  he  might  yet  end  his  days  in  the 
vocation  which  he  best  loves.  I  would  not  have  you 
suspect  me  of  a  discontented  spirit;  but  my  heart 
leaps  at  the  idea  of  parish-meetings  in  my  own  par- 
lor, and  other  pasloreen  enjoyments.  But  I  have  no 
care  about  the  future,  other  than  that  which  one 
must  have,  —  a  desire  to  fulfil  the  duties  which  it 
may  bring. 

^''January  16,  1842.  I  have  been  prevented  by  aK 
sorts  of  things  from  finishing  this  ;  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  enumerate  them.  I  will  only  say,  that  for 
the  last  fortnight  I  have  had  little  thought  or  time 
for  any  thing  but  preparing  my  husband  for  a  six 
weeks'  absence.  Not  that  I  had  so  very  much  to  do 
for  him  (although  it  is  a  different  thing  to  poor  folks, 
to  live  where  their  clothes  can  be  mended  every  day, 
or  must  go  without  mending  for  six  weeks) ;  but 
he  has  been  very  unweU  lately,  and  I  am  so  little 
accustomed  to  the  idea  of  his  going  away  sick  with- 
out going  with  him,  that  I  found  it  very  hard  to 
bring  my  mind  to  submit  to  it.  I  did  not  feel  quite 
clear  whether  it  would  be  right  to  let  him  go,  in  the 
hope  that  change  of  scene  and  occupation  would  do 
him  good,  or  to  prevent  it  from  fear  that  the  necessity 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  SOf 

of  the  case  would  tempt  him  to  exert  himself,  wheth- 
er he  was  able  or  not.  However,  he  has  gone ; 
and  went  too  upon  the  anniversary  of  dear  Dr.  Fol- 
len's  loss.  But  I  have  heard  of  his  safe  arrival  in 
pretty  good  case,  and  I  hope  for  the  best.  Yet  I 
am  a  very  baby  at  the  prospect  of  so  long  a  separa- 
tion. Truly  one's  affections  do  not  become  blunted 
by  age,  —  do  they  ?  " 

What  her  affections  were  appears  in  the  letter 
which  she  had  akeady  written  to  her  husband, — 
written  in  fact  the  very  night  of  the  day  he  left  her  ; 
for  her  heart  was  full.  Its  quick,  keen  sensibilities 
told  her  that  this  was  more  than  a  common  parting. 
Seldom  had  Mr.  Ware  gone  from  home  since  they 
were  married,  without  being  sick,  or  without  her 
going  to  him.  And  though  she  had  not  the  least 
superstition,  nor  even  indulged  gloomy  apprehen- 
sions, she  held  herself  ready  for  the  worst,  and  saw 
reason  at  this  time  to  expect  some  decided  result 
from  such  a  journey  in  mid-winter,  with  all  that  had 
preceded  it.  Before  she  slept,  therefore,  she  gave 
utterance  to  the  emotions  —  prayers  and  blessings 
we  might  call  them  —  which  were  yearning  withhi 
her. 

"  Cambridge^  January  12,  1842,  ^  past  11. 
"  Dear  Henry  :  — 

"  And  you  are  really  gone !    And  notwithstanding  I  have 

looked  forward  to  this  moment  for  so  long  a  time,  and,  as  1 

thought,  realized  over  and  over  again  all  that  I  should  feel 

when  it  should  arrive,  I  am  ashamed  to  find  how  little  all 

my  anticipations  have  prepared  me  for  it.     I  do  not  mean 

to  overwhelm  you  with  an  outpouring  of  all   my  woman's 

2G* 


306  LIFE    IN    CAMBUIDGE. 

weakness,  but  I  could  not  go  to  bed  without  saying,  '  Good 
iiiglit  to  you,  dearest.'  I  have  a  quiet  faith  that  all  is  vvel 
with  you,  and  I  have  much  hope  that  this  expedition  will 
result  in  good  to  your  mind  and  body  both.  I  can  say  from 
my  heart,  '  God  speed  you  I '  And  the  thought  that  His 
care  is  over  you  reconciles  me  to  having  you  withdrawn 
from  mine,  as  nothing  else  could  do.  I  feel  that,  in  your 
absence,  great  responsibilities  rest  upon  me,  and  I  cannot 
therefore  go  to  my  solitary  chamber  for  the  first  time  with- 
out many  solemn  and  affecting  thoughts.  But  my  hopes 
are  bright,  and  my  confidence  unshaken  ;  and  I  can  send 
my  mind  forward  with  a  cheerful  trust,  although  the  tear 
will  come  to  my  eye.  So  good  night,  again.  1  know  your 
thoughts  are  with  me,  as  mine  with  you,  and  that  this  union 
in  the  spirit  can  never  cease,  whatever  may  betide  our  out- 
ward being. 

"  Friday  Evening,  lAth.  Thanks  for  your  letter,  —  and 
many  most  grateful  thanks  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  for  your 
safety  !  It  could  not  be  but  that  the  recollection  of  the  past 
should  be  present  to  our  minds  ;  it  was  good  that  it  should 
be  so,  and  I  trust  it  has  not  been  without  great  blessing  to 
our  souls.  For  myself,  I  almost  feared  that  I  was  a  little 
superstitious,  or  rather  inclined  to  forebode  evil  ;  for  I  feel 
so  much  that  we  have  been  peculiarly  blessed  in  having  so 
many  times  had  threatened  evils  averted,  that,  upon  every 
new  exposure,  I  find  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  is  presump- 
tion to  expect  exemption  this  time  ;  and  I  never  felt  tliis  more 
strongly  than  now.  I  hope  I  have  behaved  well  outwardly. 
I  have  tried  to  do  so,  but  the  struggle  has  been  very  great. 
This  experience  is  a  new  lesson  of  trust  and  comfort  for 
us.     May  it  have  its  due  influence  ! 

"  Farewell.     Blessings  be  with  you  ! 

"  ftL  L.  Ware." 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  307 

The  result  of  the  visit  to  New  York  is  known. 
Mrs.  Ware  had  not  over-estimated  the  importance 
of  the  period.  It  was  a  crisis.  The  second  Sunday 
of  her  husband's  absence  was  the  last  time  that  he 
ever  attempted  to  preach.  He  was  attacked  in  the 
pulpit  with  bleeding,  as  he  supposed  from  the  lungs, 
and  did  not  finish  the  service.  It  was  the  end  of  his 
career  as  a  preacher,  and  the  extinction  of  many 
bright  hopes  in  those  united  minds  and  devoted 
hearts.  For  to  Mrs.  Ware,  also,  was  this  a  disap- 
pointment of  cherished  purposes,  not  simply  as  his 
wife,  but  from  her  own  fervid  interest  in  the  Chris- 
tian ministry,  and  her  sympathy  with  the  aspirations 
and  the  struggles  of  those  engaged,  or  about  to  en- 
gage, in  this  great  work. 

Her  account  of  the  change,  and  other  changes 
that  followed,  closing  the  Cambridge  life,  may  be 
best  given  in  extracts  from  various  letters,  which  will 
constitute  a  journal  of  the  time. 

"  March,  1842.  Mr.  Ware  had  not  been  well  for 
two  months  previous  to  his  going  to  New  York ;  no 
difficulty  upon  the  lungs,  —  simply  out  of  order  from 
too  close  and  wearisome  attention  to  a  vexatious 
variety  of  duty,  having  no  rest,  and  not  time  enough 
to  do  any  thing  well.  His  system  seemed  disar- 
ranged, and  he  thought  he  should  be  most  benefited 
by  going  away,  changing  the  scene  entirely,  and  ob- 
taining rest  to  mind  and  body.  He  went.  Every 
letter  spoke  of  improvement,  and  I  had  made  up 
my  mind,  that,  in  spite  of  all  my  fears,  he  was  doing 
the  best  possible  thing.  So  I  said  to  his  father  on 
Sunday  evening ;  and    on    Monday    I  received  his 


303  LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

letter,  telling  me  of  his  having  been  taken  in 
church  with  raising  blood.  Of  course  I  went  im- 
mediately to  him,  arriving  at  his  lodgings  at  nine, 
Tuesday  morning.  The  weather  was  very  mild, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  its  continuing  so  made  me 
anxious  to  get  him  home.  After  some  reluctance 
on  the  part  of  his  physician  had  been  overcome,  we 
decided  to  return  that  day.  So,  after  spending  eight 
hours  in  New  York,  I  turned  my  face  homeward, 
and  in  forty  hours  after  leaving  my  own  door  landed 
at  it  with  my  precious  charge,  none  the  worse  for 
the  journey.  You  may  suppose  it  all  seemed  a 
dream  to  me.     It  was,  however,  a  sad  reality  to  him, 

a  very  sad  disappointment Your  picture  of 

'  rest'  is  a  beautiful  vision,  —  one  which  many  of  our 
friends  have  brought  before  our  eyes  at  this  time. 
But  what  can  a  man  do,  with  seven  children,  and 
only  his  own  hands  to  depend  upon  ?  I  scruple  not 
to  say,  that  a  ten-foot  house,  and  bread  and  water 
diet,  with  the  sense  of  rest  to /u'/h,  would  be  a  luxury, 
and  I  trust  some  door  will  be  opened  to  us  by  w^hich 
we  shall  obtain  it.  Now  he  is  tied,  bound  hand  and 
foot ;  and  if  he  does  not  die  in  the  bonds,  it  is  more 
than  any  one  has  a  right  to  calculate  upon.  How 
various  the  trials  of  life !  and  how  dilficult  always  to 
feel  that  elasticity  of  spirit  which  is  needful  to  make 
one  as  cheerful  as  we  ought  to  be  at  all  times  I " 

"  May  1,  1842.  You  will  hear  in  a  few  days  of 
the  change  that  has  come  to  us.  1  have  been  en- 
tirely satisfied,  ever  since  last  October,  that  it  must 
come  to  this,  and  I  felt,  the  sooner  Henry  stopped, 
the  better  for  him.     13ut  the   utter  uncertainly  as  to 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  309 

the  future  support  of  such  a  large  family,  and  a  re- 
luctance to  leave  his  father's  side  in  his  declining 
years,  important  as  he  is  to  his    parent's  comfort, 

could    not   but   make   him  deliberate And 

now,  dear  Nancy,  we  are  once  more  afloat  on  the 
world's  wide  sea.  You  will  easily  guess  how  much 
there  is  of  deep,  soul-stirring  emotion  in  all  this,  and 
how  much  more  there  must  be  before  we  quit  for 
ever  our  dearly  loved  home,  rendered  doubly  dear  by 
the  hours  of  sickness  and  sacred  sorrow  experienced 
in  it.  What  will  be  our  destination,  1  know  not. 
We  have  some  plans,  but  the  execution  of  any  must 
depend  upon  contingencies  now  hidden  from  us. 
The  first  thing  to  be  thought  of  is  Mr.  Ware's  resto- 
ration to  health;  and  had  we  the  means,  I  should 
like  to  spend  a  week  or  tw^o  in  riding  about  home, 
or  in  little  excursions,  giving  him  the  opportunity  of 
doing  what  he  could  by  conversation  for  the  class 
about  to  leave  the  School.  Should  he  ever  get  well, 
there  are  some  possible  projects  already  presented 
which  would  support  us,  but  in  the  mean  time  all  is 
dark,  —  that  is,  we  know  nothing  about  it.  I  am 
satisfied  that  we  have  done  rigid,  and  I  am  ready  for 
the  consequences,  be  they  what  they  may.  I  am 
not  as  strong  as  I  once  was  to  meet  hard  labor,  but 
I  am  willing  to  work  to  the  extent  of  my  ability  ; 
and  I  know  that  no  amount  of  bodily  labor  can  bo 
so  wearisome  as  the  mental  struggle  of  the  last  two 
years.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  meet  any  thing  better 
than  seeing  my  husband  declining ;  can  he  only  be 
spared,  no  matter  what  comes.  Do  not  think  that 
T  am   unmindful   of  the  difficulties  which    poverty 


310 


LIFE    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


brings,  —  the  hindrances  to  the  satisfactory  educa- 
tion of  children,  the  loss  of  intellectual  privileges,  and 
the  wear  and  tear  to  the  spirit  by  the  uncertainties 
of  daily  supply  for  even  the  necessary  wants  of  life. 
I  understand  it  all ;  and  I  know  that  In  all  there  is 
useful  discipline  for  heaven,  and  I  think  for  my  chil- 
dren, that,  if  the  means  of  one  kind  of  education  are 
denied  them,  they  may  in  other  ways  gain  the  es- 
sentials for  spiritual  life  more  readily.  I  cannot  dis- 
trust or  doubt  the  good  providence  of  God  under  all 
circumstances ;  how  can  I,  after   the   experience    I 

have  had  in  life  ? If  Mr.  Ware  and  I  should 

ride  off  anywhere,  it  will  probably  be  towards  Wor- 
cester. O  the  money,  the  money !  what  can  be 
done  without  money  !  I  have  written  to  the  end 
of  my  paper,  and  all  about  self;  but  I  have  much  to 
say  about  other  things." 

"  May  8,  1842.  I  have  tried  in  vain,  dear  Emma, 
to  find  time  and  ability  to  answer  your  kind  notes, 
for  I  have  longed  to  tell  you  something  of  the  mighty 
movement  which  has  been  going  on  within  our  little 
domestic  world,  as  well  as  to  satisfy  you  of  Mr. 
Ware's  gradual  progress  towards  health.  But  for 
the  first  three  weeks  of  his  sickness,  his  case  de- 
manded my  undivided  attention  ;  and  since  the  day 
he  wrote  his  letter  of  resignation,  I  have  been,  with 
the  exception  of  three  '  poor  days,'  sick  myself.  Not 
made  sick  by  that  fact,  I  beg  you  to  understand,  — 
unless  the  reaction  of  relief  from  anxiety  might 
make  one  sick,  and  the  exhilaration  consequent  upon 
it  act  too  powerfully  upon  the  nervous  system.     It 


LIFT,    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  311 

is  indeed  an  unspeakable  relief  to  my  mind,  and  I 
could  see  that  it  was  also  to  Henry,  for  he  began  to 
improve  at  once  when  the  deed  was  done.  It  is  a 
great  step,  at  our  time  of  life,  with  so  large  a  family, 
and  so  little  substantial  health  in  the  acting  portion 
of  it,  to  be  launched  forth  upon  the  wide  world  to 
obtain  a  support  we  know  not  how.  But  of  what 
use  is  experience,  of  what  value  is  faith,  if  they  can- 
not enable  one  to  meet  the  changes  of  life  without 

fear? I  have  been   quite   sick,  having  had  a 

sudden  and  severe  attack  threatening  fever.  I  felt 
for  a  little  while  as  if  I  could  not  have  one  of  my 
long  sicknesses  just  at  this  juncture,  as  if  I  was  for 
once  too  important  a  person  to  be  laid  upon  the  shelf, 
and  I  never  was  more  truly  thankful  than  when  1 
found  myself  relieved  by  the  first  applications.  I 
have  not  yet  been  down  stairs,  but  expect  to  ride  to- 
morrow, if  it  is  pleasant.  The  breaking  up  will  be 
severe,  I  know ;  but  I  think  I  am  prepared  for  it.  It 
is  not  the  first  time  that  the  strong  ties  which  bind 
me  always  to  my  home  have  been  severed.  And 
although  I  have  never  before  felt  so  much  that  my 
home  was  indeed  my  own  creation,  the  thought  that 
it  is  right  to  leave  it,  and  the  oppression  of  spirit 
which  the  last  two  years  have  witnessed  here,  recon- 
cile me  to  all  the  suflfering  in  prospect.  Don't  think 
me  a  romancer,  that  I  can  feel  joyous  when  I  know 
not  how  we  are  to  be  fed  and  clothed.  If  God  gives 
me  strength,  I  am  willing  to  work,  and  prefer  that 
my  children  should  be  obliged  to ;  and  I  have  no 
fears  but  that,  if  ine  do  the  best  we  can,  God  will  take 
care  of  us.     He  has  many  agents  of  mercy." 


312  MFF,    I\    CAMBRIDGK. 

Mr.  Ware  was  able  to  remain  in  office  the  rest  of 
the  theological  term,  and  to  carry  through  the  grad- 
uating class,  with  whom  his  last  exercises  were 
deeply  affecting.  Very  soon  after  this,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1842,  the  family  left  Cambridge ;  having  fixed 
upon  Framingham,  Mass.,  as  their  place  of  retreat, 
after  looking  at  many  places,  and  weighing  all  con- 
siderations of  position  and  expense. 

Of  the  last  days  in  Cambridge,  we  have  obtained 
the  recollections  of  their  oldest  son,  himself  a  mem- 
ber of  the  class  just  spoken  of,  as  the  last  that  en- 
joyed the  instruction  and  benediction  of  his  father. 
We  give  the  account  in  his  own  unstudied  words. 

"  That  last  summer  was  a  very  pleasant  one,  as  I 
remember  it.  Things  were  very  much  as  ever;  if 
any  thing,  the  little  social  gatherings  of  neighbors 
were  more  frequent,  as  all  felt  they  must  be  few. 
The  drives  with  father  to  find  a  place,  the  selection 
of  Framingham,  the  pilgrimages  there,  occupied  a 
good  deal  of  the  time,  as  also  the  gradual  prepara- 
tion, and  the  many  adieus.  The  'breaking  up' 
was  one  of  the  gravest  trials  of  mother's  life.  Thor- 
oughly convinced  of  its  necessity,  looking  forward  to 
it  as  a  relief  in  all  ways,  yet  the  whole  summer  was 
tinged  by  the  thought  of  it.  I  remember  long  talks ; 
one  in  particular,  in  which  she  drew  nearer  to  me 
and  I  to  her.  I  think  that,  feeling  obliged  to  keep 
up  before  father,  she  yearned  to  confide  in  us. 
When  it  came  to  the  last,  it  was  hard.  The  chil- 
dren and  all  were  gone.  Mother,  father,  and  I  were 
left,  and  I  was  to  be  left,  for  I  was  just  going  into 
the  world   myself.      The   wagon   was   at  the    door. 


LIFL     IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


313 


1'  ather  got  in,  merely  wringing  my  hand,  but  most 
deeply  moved.  I  could  see  it  and  feel  it.  If  he  had 
spoken,  it  would  have  been  more  than  he  could  bear. 
I  never  till  that  moment  imagined,  so  feverish  had 
been  his  desire  to  get  away,  how  much  his  heart  was 
in  that  spot.  Mother  was  behind,  and  had  got  down 
one  step,  when  she  turned  round  and  threw  her  arms 
about  my  neck,  and  there  we  stood.  It  was  one  of 
the  moments  of  life.  '  God  bless  you,  my  child ! ' 
I  have  heard  her  say  it  many  times,  but  it  never 
meant  more.  Father  could  not  bear  it.  He  urged 
her  away ;  the  horse  started  at  his  quick  word ;  I 
was  alone,  —  and  that  chapter  of  life  was  ended ! 
We  never  all  three  of  us  entered  Cambridge  together 
again,  until  the  night  that  mother  and  I  brought 
with  us  from  Framingham  '  the  last  of  earth.' 

"  Since  writing  this,  I  have  chanced  upon  father's 
first  letter  afterward.  He  says  :  '  The  struggle  at  the 
last  moment  was  a  hard  one ;  but  we  got  composed 
after  a  while,  and  then  found  ourselves  excessively 
overcome  with  weariness.' " 


XII. 

LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

It  is  no  cause  of  regret  that  the  narrative  of  a 
married  woman's  life  cannot  be  separated  from  that 
of  her  husband.  The  biographer  may  regret  the  ne- 
cessity of  referring  to  familiar  facts,  and  sometimes 
using  materials  already  in  possession  of  the  public. 
But  more  sorry  should  we  be  if  the  history  of  the 
wife  could  be  drawn  out  by  itself;  especially  that 
history  of  every-day  life,  and  idea  of  the  inner  being, 
which  we  are  attempting  to  give.  Few  women,  in 
our  community,  and  with  "  troops  of  friends,"  have 
been  more  thrown  upon  themselves  at  an  early  age, 
or  have  led  a  more  truly  single  life  until  life's  me- 
ridian, than  did  Mary  Pickard.  But  the  moment 
she  became  Mary  Ware  she  lived  for  another,  — 
as  unreservedly  and  devotedly  as  woman  ever  did. 
Principle  and  aftection  alone  would  have  prompt- 
ed this,  as  a  pleasure;  the  circumstances  in  which 
she  was  placed,  from  first  to  laj«t  made  it  a  duty, 
and  still  a  delight.  And  mor  and  more,  as  years 
passed,  did  the  duty  and  the  delight  grow,  tinged 
only  by  the  sad  thought  of  his  premature  failure  and 
sore  disappointnumt. 

It  is  a  small  trial  to  be  summoned  from  one  sphere 
of  duty  to  another;  even  if  it  cost  the  disruption  of 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  315 

many  ties,  still  if  it  be  a  call  of  duty,  with  continued 
power  of  activity  and  usefulness,  it  is  not  to  be 
called  a  hardship.  It  surely  is  no  evil,  but  rather 
a  privilege,  for  the  faithful  laborer  to  die  at  his 
post,  with  his  harness  on.  But  to  die  and  yet  to 
live,  to  have  one's  chosen  work  broken  off  for  ever, 
and  the  strong,  disinterested  love  of  labor  forbidden 
all  exercise,  with  the  prospect  of  years  of  helpless- 
ness at  the  best,  perhaps  protracted  suffering  and  a 
dependent  family,  —  this  is  trial,  calling  for  as  much 
of  fortitude  and  faith  as  humanity  often  requires. 
It  may  be  partiality  which  leads  us  to  doubt  whether 
there  was  ever  more  of  fortitude  and  faith,  in  sim- 
ilar condition,  than  in  the  hearts  of  Henry  and  Mary 
Ware,  as  they  turned  their  bacK  upon  the  fond 
scenes  of  their  labor,  and,  with  the  unavoidable  con- 
sciousness of  high  qualification  as  well  as  affection, 
withdrew  from  all  public  service  and  peculiar  trust. 
Nor  is  it  too  much  to  assume,  that,  while  on  him 
pressed  most  heavily  the  burden  of  responsibility 
and  the  grief  of  incapacity,  it  was  to  the  wife  and 
the  mother  that  there  came  most  loudly  the  call  for 
exertion,  for  cheerful  courage,  a  wise  diligence,  and 
unfaltering  trust. 

The  village  to  which  they  retired  was  chosen  part- 
ly for  its  seclusion  combined  with  convenience,  and 
partly  for  economy.  In  relation  to  the  last,  their 
anxieties  were  now  relieved  by  a  generous  contribu- 
tion from  friends,  whom  it  would  have  been  wrong  to 
refuse ;  though  similar  offers  had  been  made  and  de- 
clined before,  as  we  ought  to  have  said  in  referring 
to  their  embarrassments.     So  long  as  there  was  the 


316  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGIIAM. 

power  of  exertion,  or  a  reasonable  hope  of  it,  Mr. 
Ware  could  not  bring  himself  to  accept  any  mere 
favors  of  this  kind,  —  seldom  so  grateful  as  a  fair  re- 
quital for  willing  service  and  acknowledged  ability. 
But  now  that  the  power  of  exertion  was  suspended, 
duty  to  those  nearest,  as  well  as  gratitude  to  perse- 
vering benefactors,  made  him  more  than  willing.  "  I 
have  got  rid,  through  the  kindness  of  excellent 
friends,  of  all  distressful  anxiety  for  the  living  of  my 
family;  I  can  leave  them  in  comparative  peace;  in 
that  sense,  my  house  is  set  in  order."  Thus  did  Mr. 
Ware  write  to  his  brother  John,  in  that  earnest  let- 
ter in  which  he  begs  him,  as  a  physician,  to  deal 
frankly  with  him,  and  tell  him  the  whole  truth  as  to 
the  probability  of  his  recovery  or  decline.  And  this 
was  the  state  of  mind  in  which  the  life  at  Framing- 
ham  began,  and  continued  to  the  end,  —  a  state  of 
suspense,  entire  uncertainty,  unwillingness  to  be 
idle,  but  inability  to  enter  confidently  upon  any 
plan,  or  engage  vigorously  in  any  employment^ 
There  is  little,  therefore,  to  be  told  of  this  period,  in 
regard  to  occupation  or  incident.  We  can  only 
show  in  what  spirit  Mrs.  Ware  met  this  new  trial, 
—  to  many  minds  the  hardest  of  all,  —  living  with- 
out an  object,  yet  striving  to  live  cheerfully,  busily, 
and  profitably. 

This  may  be  shown  best  by  giving  brief  extracts 
from  her  letters,  written  during  the  first  season  of 
their  residence  there. 

"  July  30,  1842.     My  dear  Mrs.  F :   You  will 

be  glad  to  know  that  we  find  ourselves  very  comfort- 
able here.     The  house  is  exceedingly  well  adapted 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  317 

to  our  purpose ;  and  though  the  externals  of  life  are 
comparatively  small  matters  with  respect  to  happi- 
ness, in  health,  there  are  cases  of  sickness  in  which 
they  must  be  of  importance.  It  is  a  great  comfort 
to  me,  in  the  present  case,  that  our  outward  appli- 
ances are  such  as  will  aid  the  chief  object  for  which 
we  have  made  this  change.  I  feel  deeply  that  it  is 
an  experiment,  and,  like  all  human  plans,  has  some 
disadvantages ;  but  I  will  '  hope  on,  hope  ever,'  be- 
lieving as  I  do  that  it  was  right  to  try  it.  Yet  you 
know  (none  better)  how  much  one  has  to  feel  in  the 
detail  of  life,  when  so  much  is  at  stake.  O,  why  can 
we  not,  with  full  faith  and  perfect  peace,  cast  all  our 
care  upon  Him,  who  indeed  careth  for  us  more  than 
we  can  care  for  any  being  ?  I  can  for  the  most  part 
feel  this,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  keep  always  on  the 

mount Although  I  realize  the  change,  and  fully 

appreciate  all  I  have  left  behind,  I  am  perfectly 
amazed  to  find  how  obtuse  my  feelings  are.  I  could 
almost  fancy  I  did  not  love  my  friends  as  well  as  I 
thought  I  did,  so  entirely  do  I  find  myself  absorbed 
by  my  new  duties  and  occupations,  with  scarcely  a 
thought  for  any  thing  but  the  best  accomplishment 
of  my  immediate  business,  —  my  husband's  comfort 
and  improvement.  What  a  blessed  power  of  adap- 
tation is  given  us,  to  enable  us  to  meet  the  varieties 
of  life!  The  fact  is,  in  our  case,  never  could  so 
great  a  movement  have  been  made  under  more  fa- 
vorable circumstances ;  and,  with  so  many  blessings 
about  our  path,  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  we 
could  find  place  for  regret." 

'''August  21,  1842.     My  dear  N :   I  begin  to 

27* 


yi8  LIFE    IN    FRAMINUIIAM. 

think  I  shall  not  gain  much  in  the  way  of  Insure  by 
this  change.  For  although  there  is  not  the  «ame 
necessity  for  attending  to  extraneous  matters  that 
there  was  in  Cambridge,  so  much  more  of  the  detail 
of  affairs  necessarily  passes  through  my  hands,  that 
I  find  the  days  all  too  short  to  accomplish  half  I 
should  like  to  do.  I  cannot  give  up  the  hope,  and 
indeed  expectation,  that  the  mode  of  life  we  have 
adopted  will  prove  good  for  Mr.  Ware ;  and  as  I 
view  it  nearer,  so  many  of  what  I  had  anticipated  as 
hindrances  vanish  into  thin  air,  that  I  am  more  than 
ever  satisfied  with  the  form  of  the  experiment.  Of 
course,  I  expect  to  put  my  shoulder  to  the  daily  wheel 
in  a  new  line  of  labor,  and  have  fully  calculated  the 
cost.  I  only  hope  my  health  and  strength  will  contin- 
ue as  good  as  they  now  are,  and  I  shall  do  very  well. 
I  never  shrink  from  labor  of  any  kind Our  chil- 
dren are  much  pleased  with  the  place  and  its  occu 
pations ;  and  I  hope  to  give  them  by  the  change  the 
opportunity  of  acquiring  the  knowledge  of  many 
things,  and  exercising  some  of  the  virtues  for  which 
they  had  no  chance  in  their  former  mode  of  life. 

I  have  a  treasure  of  a  woman,  who  has  been 

with  me  nearly  two  years,  bound  to  me  and  mine  by 
the  strongest  affection,  kind,  capable,  and  refined  ; 
particularly  pleased  with  being  '  monarch  of  all  she 
surveys'  in  the  kitchen,  and  *j  v.ell  informed  and 
respectful,  that  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  associate 
with  her  as  I  am  obliged  to  in  work,  and  a  comfort 
in  the  perfect  security  I  feel  in  her  intercourse  with 
my  children.  It  is  not  the  least  of  my  blessings, 
that  just  such  an  one  should  have  been  with  me  at 
this  crisis." 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGIIAM.  319 

This  mention  of  the  faithful  domestic,  "  our  Mar- 
garet," as  she  was  always  called,  who  lived  with 
Mrs.  Ware  seven  years,  discloses  another  trait  of 
character,  more  rare  than  it  should  be.  The  com- 
plaints that  we  constantly  hear  of  the  selfishness  and 
"  plague  of  servants,"  demand  more  consideration 
than  they  usually  receive.  The  whole  matter  of  do- 
mestic service  is  becoming  a  serious  one.  Even 
where  it  is  wholly  free,  it  affects  materially  the  com- 
fort of  life,  and  exerts  an  influence  on  the  character 
of  both  the  employers  and  the  employed.  Are  the 
employers  or  the  employed  most  in  fault?  This 
is  the  one  question  which  should  be  deliberately 
weighed,  instead  of  being  dismissed  with  a  burst  of 
passion  or  a  smile  of  self-complacency.  There  arr 
women  who  have  little  or  no  trouble  with  theit 
servants,  —  who  retain  them  long,  secure  their  confi- 
dence for  life,  obtain  from  them  better  service  than 
many  who  pay  more  and  exact  more,  and  repose  in 
them  the  most  important  trusts.  To  this  class  we 
believe  Mrs.  Ware  to  have  belonged.  And  the  se- 
cret of  her  success  we  suppose  to  have  been  simply 
this :  she  looked  upon  servants  as  of  the  same  spe- 
cies with  herself;  creatures  of  like  passions  and  like 
sensibilities ;  as  liable  to  be  selfish,  unreasonable,  and 
ea»,ily  offended,  as  those  whom  they  serve,  but  not 
more ;  having  equal  claim  upon  kind  consideration, 
and  a  perfect  right  to  feel  wounded  and  wronged,  if 
dealt  with  unjustly.  On  this  subject  Mrs.  Ware 
seems  to  have  asked  herself  these  two  questions: 
Why  do  so  many  people,  who  are  never  harsh  or  ill- 
natured  toward  any  one  else,  think  nothing  of  being 


320  LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM. 

harsh  and  ill-natured  toward  their  domestics  ?  And 
why  do  many  sound  and  zealous  religionists  forget 
to  carry  any  of  their  religion  into  their  intercourse 
and  dealings  with  servants?  It  would  not  have  been 
easy,  we  think,  to  discern  any  difference  in  her  treat- 
ment of  the  highest  and  the  lowest,  the  affluent  and 
the  dependent.  Nor  did  she  think  it  her  duty  to 
visit  iniquity  even  upon  the  vicious,  by  withdrawing 
from  them  all  confidence,  and  turning  them  into  the 
streets  to  sin  and  suffer  more.  Not  in  words  alone, 
or  of  one  sex  only,  has  she  said,  as  we  find  her 
saying  in  an  aggravated  case  :  "  I  see  not  why  a 
man's  sins  should  for  ever  cut  him  off  from  the 
charities  of  his  kind,  if  he  is  truly  penitent.  What 
are  we  that  we  should  condemn,  if  God  forgives?" 

In  continuing  our  extracts  from  Mrs.  Ware's  let- 
ters at  this  period,  we  shall  draw  freely  from  those 
which  she  wrote  to  the  son  who  had  been  left  in 
Cambridge,  and  was  now  entering  upon  the  work  of 
the  ministry,  feeling  painfully  the  separation  from 
his  father,  and  the  loss  in  part  of  his  guidance  and 
counsel. 

"  Framing-ham,  Aiigmsi,  1842.  At  last,  dear  John, 
the  great  crisis  has  passed,  the  great  movement  is 
made.  We  have  changed  our  home,  and  are  no 
longer  to  live  together  under  the  same  circumstan- 
ces. The  change  is  indeed  great  to  us  all,  but  I  feel 
that  for  you  it  is  greater  than  to  any  one  else,  and 
therefore  it  is  that  I  am  impelled  to  use  my  first 
quiet  moment  in  expressing  my  deep  sense  of  the 
trial  of  your  present  position,  and  most  heartily  sym- 
pathize with  the  soul-stirring  cniotion  which  belongs 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGIIAM.  321 

to  it.  To  you  it  is  iildeed  a  very  important  turning- 
point  in  existence,  and  when  one  looks  only  upon 
the  momentous  responsibilities  which  it  involves,  it 
is  not  strange  that  the  heart  should  sink,  and  the 
question  should  involuntarily  arise  to  one's  lips, 
'  How  can  this  change  be  borne,  how  can  such  duties 
be  met  ?  '  I  have  felt  sometimes,  in  looking  at  the 
singular  combination  of  events,  by  which  you  should 
be  separated  from  your  father,  just  when  you  were 
commencing  the  most  trying  and  important  period 
of  life,  as  if  it  were  almost  too  hard ;  and  as  if  it 
would  have  been  not  only  easier,  but  safer,  to  have 
been  able  to  feel  your  way  a  little  before  you  ab- 
solutely floated  off  under  your  own  sole  guidance. 
But  a  second  thought  has  always  satisfied  me  that 
the  arrangement  of  Providence  was  the  best,  al- 
though for  the  time  the  most  painful.  Standing 
forth  in  your  lot,  as  an  ambassador  for  Christ  to 
the  world,  you  cannot  be  too  soon  led  to  rely  solely 
on  his  teaching  for  direction,  and  it  cannot  but  be 
best  that  you  should  be  compelled,  by  the  removal 
of  earthly  succor,  to  go  only  to  Him  who  is  '  the 
way,  the  truth,  and  the  life,'  for  strength  in  the  hour 
of  need." 

"  My  dear  John  :  You  are  now  passing  through 
that  ordeal  which  I  have  long  looked  forward  to  as 
inevitable  at  some  period,  sometimes  with  an  almost 
irresistible  desire  to  avert  it  by  opening  to  you  pages 
of  my  own  painful  experience  in  self-education ; 
sometimes  with  an  uncontrollable  impatience  to 
hasten  it,  that,  being  past,  you  and  I  and  all  might 
be  enjoying  the  happiness  it  might  produce.     It  is 


322 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 


one  of  the  most  difficult  questions  to  decide  how  far, 
and  when,  to  make  opportunities,  or  wait  for  then^ 
to  come  in  the  natural  order  of  things ;  we  should 
very  decidedly  wait,  if  we  were    sure    they   would 

come  at  some  time,  —  but  there  is  the  rub 

"  It  is  a  common  and  very  natural  idea  with 
young  people,  that  older  ones  cannot  understand  or 
sympathize  in  their  feelings ;  forgetting  that  we  have 
all  been  young,  and  that  the  struggles  by  which  the 
soul  is  exercised  in  youth  are  never  to  be  forgotten. 
The  experience  of  different  natural  characters  of 
course  varies,  but  the  fact  of  struggle  is  common  to 
all.  And  upon  no  spot  in  the  review  of  the  past 
does  one's  memory  dwell  with  so  much  intense  emo- 
tion, as  upon  that  thorny  and  tangled  labyrinth 
through  which  the  spirit  wandered,  '  bewildered,  but 
not  lost,'  at  the  period  when  the  necessity  and  duty 
of  proving  its  own  character  first  roused  it  to  a  sense 
of  its  responsibilities.  You  say  most  truly,  that  it  is 
good  to  look  at  things  at  a  distance,  from  new  and 
various  points  of  view.  I  have  always  advocated 
this,  for  my  own  changeful  life  forced  the  conviction 
upon  me ;  and  for  the  same  reason,  I  would  advo- 
cate free,  confidential  discussion  of  inward  and  spir- 
itual experience.  The  mere  clothing  our  thoughts 
and  feelings  in  words  sometimes  places  them  in  a 
different  position.  We  take  them  out  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  our  own  perhaps  morbid  fears  and  anxie- 
ties, and  can  therefore  see  them  more  clearly.  Then, 
too,  we  have  the  advantage  of  another's  observation, 
and,  may-be,  experience  of  the  selfsame  difficulties, 
to  aid  us  in  our  judgment  of  their  true  character. 


LIFE     IN    FRAMING  HAM.  323 

At  any  rate,  we  have  the  certainty  of  that  warm 
kindling  of  the  affections  which  to  a  loving  heart  is 
always  a  help  in  bearing  the  burden  of  life.  Believe 
me,  dear  John,  there  is  ample  reward  for  all  the 
effort  it  may  cost  in  unclothing  ourselves,  in  the 
consciousness  that  however  the  outer  world  may 
think  of  us,  at  home,  in  that  sanctuary  which  God 
and  nature  have  alike  appointed  as  the  best  resting- 
place  for  the  spirit  upon  earth,  we  are  understood 
and  appreciated  and  loved.  Let  us  nt)t  suffer  any 
factitious  thoughts  or  circumstances  to  cheat  us  of 
this  privilege,  but  with  trusting,  confiding  hearts 
take  the  good  which  Heaven  designed  for  us  when 
the  family-community  was  established  in  the  world. 

I  could  write  more   than  I  should   care  to 

give  you  the  trouble  to  read,  if  I  attempted  to  write 
half  that  I  have  in  my  heart  to  say." 

"  December,  1842.  The  going  forth  into  the  world 
for  the  first  time  alone  is,  it  seems  to  me,  the  most 
trying  point  in  the  existence  of  any  one  of  any 
sensibility.  But  does  not  the  very  difficulty  of  the 
case  indicate  the  value  of  the  experience  ?  Are  not 
almost  all  the  most  valuable  results  of  effort  those 
which  require  the  greatest  efforts  for  their  attain- 
ment? The  higher  the  summit  to  which  we  would 
arrive,  the  more  toilsome  must  be  the  ascent.  When 
by  a  prayerful,  self-surrendering  spirit  we  have 
sought  to  learn  the  will  of  God  concerning  us,  shall 
we  not  believe  that,  into  whatsoever  path  we  may  be 
led,  it  must  contain  for  us  the  discipline  we  need, 
—  treasures  of  experience,  hidden  perhaps  at  first, 
which   will   amply   repay   any   toil,  any   suffering,  in 


324  LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM. 

the  aid  we  shall  derive  from  them  in  our  Christian 

progress? We  admire,  we  reverence,  the  spirit 

which  actuated  Oberlin  and  Felix  Neff,  and  many 
others  of  the  class  of  missionary  spirits  who  have 
left  all  to  do  their  Master's  work  in  the  field  he  has 
appointed  for  them  ;  but  we  do  not  easily  realize  how 
much  of  the  same  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  is  called  for 
ir  what  no  one  would  think  of  calling  missionary 
ground,  and  which  yet  requires  as  much  surrender 
of  earthly  desire  as  their  situations  could,  which  none 
but  the  All-seeing  can  know." 

An  event  which  all  felt,  at  this  time,  was  felt  by 
none  more  than  by  Mrs.  Ware.  We  mean  the  death 
of  Dr.  Channing.  The  reader  will  remember  how 
much  he  had  done  for  her  in  early  life,  not  only  as  a 
public  teacher,  but  as  a  private  friend,  with  whom 
her  intercourse  had  been  frequent  and  perfectly  free. 
For  several  years  she  had  seen  little  of  him.  And 
now,  in  her  seclusion  and  comparative  solitude,  the 
unexpected  intelligence  of  his  death  moved  her  deep- 
ly. To  a  friend  in  Cambridge,  she  writes  :  "  You 
cannot  imagine  how  trying  it  is  to  me,  to  know 
nothing  of  Dr.  Channing's  sickness  and  death,  except 
what  the  newspapers  can  tell  me.  You  know  not 
the  peculiar  relation  in  which  I  have  stood  towards 
him.  Do  in  pity  tell  me  what  you  know  about  the 
event.  I  cannot  realize  it,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it. 
There  is  so  much  to  be  thought  of  in  relation  to 
such  an  event,  that  my  mind  is  perfectly  bewildered. 
1  cannot  arrange  my  thoughts  enough  to  give  them 
utterance.  But  my  heart  goes  out  toward  those 
many   dear   friends  who  will   feel   his  loss   as  I  do. 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  326 

One  is  tempted  to  say,  '  What  a  loss  to  the  world  is 
the  death  of  such  a  man  !'  But  such  a  man  cannot 
die.  How  will  his  words  have  new  power  over  the 
hearts  of  those  who  read  them,  from  the  conscious- 
ness that  the  spirit  that  uttered  them  already  sees 
behind  the  veil,  that  his  light  can  never  be  put  out, 
but  will  penetrate  still  more  and  more  the  inmost 
recesses  of  men's  souls !  How  will  that  last  elo- 
quent, touching  appeal  for  the  Slave  gain  access  to 
the  coldest  hearts,  when  it  is  remembered  that  it  was 
the  last  effort  of  the  departing  saint  for  the  rights 
and  sufferings  of  the  oppressed !  The  impulse  which 
such  a  mind  gives  must  be  felt  for  ever.  Who  can 
measure  its  power  ? "  A  fact  is  here  suggested 
which  there  seems  no  reason  for  withholding,  show- 
ing the  estimate  which  Dr.  Channing  himself  put 
upon  the  character  and  power  of  Mrs.  Ware.  A 
lady  intimate  with  both  of  them  when  they  were 
most  together,  says:  "Dr.  Channing  talked  with  her 
on  religious  experience,  to  learn  as  well  as  to  teach. 
I  have  known  him  to  request  her  to  make  visits  of 
instruction  to  a  disconsolate  person,  whom  he  could 
not  awaken  to  religious  hope,  —  trusting  that  her 
gentle  sympathy  and  clear  views  might  shed  a  raj 
of  light  that  would  point  her  to  the  day." 

The  first  season  at  Framingham  was  a  busy  one 
though  tranquil.  Mrs.  Ware's  bodily  as  well  as 
mental  labor  must  have  been  unusually  great.  "  It 
is  true,  I  do  not  see  how  we  are  to  set  all  the 
stitches  which  will  be  necessary  to  prepare  eight 
people  for  a  winter  campaign  in  a  cold  house  ;  but 
I  have  faith  that  we  shall  find  a  way."  They  were 
28 


326  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

much  more  free  from  interruptions  than  ever  before. 
Their  new  neighbors  and  friends  were  not  only  kind, 
but  considerate,  —  one  of  the  best  forms  of  kind- 
ness. Gratefully  does  Mrs.  Ware  acknowledge  this 
"  How  much  there  is  in  human  life  to  interest  our 
hearts!  One  cannot  go  anywhere  without  finding 
some  cases  of  peculiar  interest.  We  are  here  cut  off 
from  general  knowledge  of  those  around  us,  by  hav- 
ing come  expressly  for  retirement.  Our  neighbors, 
understanding  this,  do  not  call.  And  yet  we  have 
already  happened  upon  some  most  interesting  people, 
from  whom  we  cannot  in  conscience  hold  back." 

Thus  the  year  closed ;  a  year  of  as  great  outward 
change  as  any  that  had  preceded  it,  and  leaving 
them  in  as  great  uncertainty  as  to  the  future.  Yet 
Mrs.  Ware  could  say :  "  The  prevailing  emotion  in 
the  retrospect  is  one  of  gratitude  at  having  been 
enabled  to  escape  from  the  burden  which  before 
oppressed  and  weighed  me  down.  The  conscious- 
ness that  we  were  spending  all  our  strength,  mental 
and  physical,  upon  a  vain  attempt  for  an  unattain- 
able result,  was  worse  to  me  than  any  degree  of  la- 
bor for  an  attainable  end,  or  even  any  uncertainty 
about  the  future  means  of  support.  I  rejoice  that 
my  husband  is  free  from  that  incubus  upon  his  spir- 
its ;  and  still  more  do  I  rejoice,  that  it  is  given  to  us 
both  to  feel,  in  the  uncertainty  that  lies  before  us, 
sucfl:  a  tranquil  trust  that  all  will  be  well,  that  we 
have  no  fear,  no  wish.  Still  there  is  room  for  much 
mental  and  spiritual  discipline;  and  I  must  ac- 
knowledge that  there  are  times  when  the  weakness 
of  the  ilesh  overcomes  the  willingness  of  the  spirit, 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  327 

and  I  feel  for  the  time  entirely  depressed  by  a  sense 
of  inadequacy  to  meet  the  demands  of  duty.  I  have 
not  the  power  to  do  all  that  ought  to  be  done,  and  I 
feel  as  if  the  effects  of  my  ijicapacity  would  be 
grievous.  I  know  that  one  has  no  rigJit  to  suffer 
from  this,  because  we  ought  to  have  faith  to  believe 
that  the  trials  even  of  our  own  insufficiency  are  de- 
signedto  accomplish  some  end.  But  the  conscious- 
ness that  others  are  suffering  from  our  deficiencies  is 
just  the  very  hardest  thing  to  bear  in  life.  It  is  my 
cross,  and  always  has  been  ;  and  I  fear  I  do  not  learn 
as  I  ought,  to  bear  it  in  meekness  and  humility, — 
I  need  not  say  '  fear,'  I  know  I  do  not." 

To  those  familiar  with  the  life  of  Henry  Ware,  and 
with  its  close,  it  is  unnecessary  to  recount  the  events 
of  the  year  1843 ;  the  year  that  brought  into  stern 
requisition  all  the  trust  and  endurance  of  a  devoted 
wife.  She  had  long  seen  that  this  trial  was  ap- 
proaching, and  had  fortified  herself  to  meet  it,  not  by 
putting  the  thought  of  it  aside,  but  by  keeping  it  be- 
fore her,  and  making  it  familiar,  that  it  might  never 
take  her  by  surprise.  And  long  had  she  thus  disci- 
plined her  mind  and  her  alTections.  For  during  the 
sixteen  years  that  she  had  lived  with  Mr.  Ware,  she 
could  never,  for  any  long  time,  have  failed  to  see  the 
great  precariousness  of  his  hold  on  life.  At  this  very 
period,  she  says:  "In  such  alternation  of  hope  and 
fear  do  I  live,  and  indeed  have  lived  for  the  greater 
part  of  my  married  life."  Yet  how  much  had  she  en- 
joyed life  I  and  what  an  amount  of  happiness,  labor, 
and  usefulness  had  she  extorted  —  if  we  may  use 
the  word  in  a  grateful  sense,  as  she  would — from 
every  year  and  every  position ! 


32S  LIFE    IN    FRAMING  FIAM. 

In  the  spring  of  1843  she  accompanied  her  hus- 
band to  Boston,  for  a  short  visit  at  his  brother's;  and 
there  occurred  that  severe  and  alarming  illness, 
which  confined  Mr.  Ware  for  ten  weeks,  and  from  the 
effects  of  which  he  never  recovered.  Of  this  attack, 
and  of  all  that  intervened  until  his  death,  we  will  not 
give  the  particulars,  but  would  only  trace  Mrs.  Ware's 
own  thoughts  and  feelings,  as  she  expressed  them 
from  time  to  time  in  letters  and  fragments  of  letters 
to  those  most  concerned. 

*'  Boston^  TJivrsday,  May  11.     Since  writing  to  you, 

dear  N ,  I  have  had  a  season  of  intense  anxiety. 

Sunday,  Monday,  and  Tuesday,  Mr.  Ware  suffered 
extremely,  and  it  was  not  clear  what  was  the  nature 
of  the  difficulty  that  produced  this  suffering;  one 
thing  only  was  certain,  —  that  he  was  very  sick,  and 
too  weak  to  bear  such  distress  long.  It  must  be  a 
long  time  before  he  is  free  from  the  elfects  of  it, 
even  if  he  have  strength  to  hold  out.  So  end  my 
hopes  for  the  present,  and  I  must  give  up  all  thought 
about  any  thing  but  the  care  of  my  husband,  for  I 
know  not  how  long.  God's  will  be  done !  He  must 
know  what  is  best,  — but  it  is  not  easy  to  understand 
how  it  is  so  in  this  case.     And  if  it  were  easy,  where 

would  be  room   for   Faith  ? These  are  trying, 

but  blessed  days,  for  the  cultivation  of  the  spirit  of 
faith  and  trust;  and  I  know  I  need  much  to  make 
me  feel  that  this  is  not  my  home.  God  grant  that 
I  may  effectually  learn  it,  so  as  to  be  not  only  willing, 
but  glad,  to  give  up  all  that  belongs  to  me  here,  con- 
fident in  the  prospect  of  a  reunion  in  a  better  state! 
I  shall  write  again  if  I  can,  but  I  have  few  ininutea 
unoccupied." 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  329 

'  Boston,  Mai/,  1843.  My  dear  child  :  Father  con- 
tinued very  much  as  you  left  him,  yesterday.  He 
does  not  suffer  as  much  as  he  did,  but  his  disease  is 
a  very  tedious  one,  and  it  may  be  many  weeks  be- 
fore he  is  able  to  get  home,  if  it  pleases  God  still  to 
restore  him  to  health.  Let  us  pray  to  Him  to  look 
in  mercy  upon  us,  and  spare  him  to  us  yet  longer. 
The  circumstances  of  our  lot  in  life  are  just  now  very 
trying,  and  no  doubt  are  arranged  for  us  in  order  to 
our  improvement.  It  is  a  great  trial  to  father  and 
me  to  be  separated  from  our  children  so  long;  and 
to  you  all,  this  separation  brings  the  greater  respon- 
sibility to  watch  over  yourselves,  that  you  do  in  all 
things  right,  —  not  what  is  most  pleasant,  not  what 
we  wish,  but  what  is  rig-ht  to  do,  without  regard  to 
self.  Next  to  my  anxiety  about  father,  itow,  is  my 
anxiety  about  you ;  because  I  feel  that  you  are  at  an 
age  when  the  habits  are  formed,  and  the  principles 
of  action  settled  for  life ;  that  your  whole  future,  for 
time  and  for  eternity,  may  depend  upon  these  years. 
And  I  cannot  feel  happy  unless  I  see  you  gaining 
from  day  to  day  more  and  more  of  that  self-disci- 
pline and  self-control,  which  can  alone,  by  the  grace 
of  God,  make  you  what  you  ought  to  be." 

Mr.  Ware  was  able  to  return  to  Framingham  in 
June,  and  afterward  took  several  short  journeys 
among  friends,  one  as  far  as  Plymouth,  and  thence 
to  Fall  River  (where  his  son  was  then  settled  in  the 
ministry),  and  home  by  Providence,  —  his  last  visit 
1()  those  places.  In  August,  another  and  still  more 
violent  attack  upon  the  brain  prostrated  him  com- 
pletely; and  the  remaining  five  or  six  weeks  of  his 
28 " 


330  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

life  seemed  only  a  vacillation  between  earth  and 
heaven,  —  yielding  transporting  glimpses  of  the  lat- 
ter, but  constantly  drawing  him  back  to  the  former, 
—  and  creating  altogether  as  hard  a  trial  for  the  suf- 
ferer, and  those  around  him,  as  can  easily  be  con- 
ceived. 

"  August  17.  We  feel,  in  father's  case,  '  how 
vain  is  the  help  of  man.'  His  system  is  so  delicate, 
that  he  cannot  bear  the  administration  of  any  potent 
means.  Our  reliance  must  be  upon  our  Heavenly 
Parent,  in  whose  hand  are  the  issues  of  life  and 
death.  Let  us  pray  to  Him,  that,  if  it  be  consistent 
with  his  wisdom,  this  cup  may  pass  from  us ;  but 
let  us  be  ready  to  say,  and  feel  in  our  inmost  hearts, 

'  Not  my  will,  but  thine,  O  Lord,  be  done ! ' 

We  do  not  feel  it  to  be  impossible  that  dear  father 
should  recover  from  this  illness ;  but  we  know  that 
his  repeated  sicknesses  must  have  weakened  his 
power  of  reaction,  and  we  strive,  therefore,  to  be  pre- 
pared for  any  result.  The  very  uncertainty  is  ap- 
pointed for  our  good ;  let  us  use  it,  my  dear  child, 

for  our  spiritual  advancement God  bless  you  I 

be  submissive,  be  patient,  be  grateful,  if  it  so  please 
God  that  dear  father  should  be  released  from  the 
burden  of  his  earthly  house,  to  be  transported  to  his 
heavenly  home,  where  there  is  no  more  pain." 

"  August  21.  It  is  all  in  the  hands  of  Infinite  Love 
and  Wisdom.  God  will  order  all  well ;  let  us  be 
willing  and  be  thankful  to  place  our  trust  in  Him. 
What  a  mercy  it  is  to  us,  that  He  has  not  given  us 
the  power  of  foreknowledge !  But  whatever  may 
be  the  event,  let  us  not  lose  the  benefit  of  this  disci- 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  331 

pline  to  our  souls ;  let  us  strive  to  increase  our  faith 
in  God's  goodness,  our  trust  in  his  love I  can- 
not write  much,  for  I  cannot  leave  father  many  min- 
utes at  a  time,  —  and  all  the  time  I  can  get,  I  am 
bound  to  devote  to  sleep." 

•'  August  23 Thus  you  see  we  are  vibrating 

between  hope  and  fear.  But  it  is  a  question  whether 
we  have  a  right  to  allow  either;  for  we  know  not 
what  is  best  for  him  or  for  ourselves." 

"  August  29.  My  dear  Emma :  I  must  say  a  few 
words  to  you,  to  thank  you  for  your  most  welcome 
letter  received  yesterday.  How  much  I  have  longed 
for  some  intercourse  with  you,  during  the  last  two 
months,  you  can  judge  better  by  your  own  expe- 
rience now,  than  by  any  words  of  mine.  I  have 
wished,  as  you  do  now,  to  know  all  that  was  passing 
within  the  deep  fountains  of  your  spiritual  life,  and 
nothing  but  the  absolute  necessity  of  the  case  has 
kept  me  away  from  you.  Now,  I  say,  come,  when- 
ever you  can ;  you  will  be  most  welcome  to  us  all, 
and  to  me  your  presence  will  be  a  real  benediction. 
I  feel  at  times  as  if  I  should  be  overpowered  by  the 
tumult  of  feelings  to  which  I  dare  not  give  utterance 
here,  where  the  composure  of  all  around  me  depends 
so  much  upon  my  calmness.  This  last  fortnight  has 
shaken  to  its  very  foundation  the  whole  fabric  of  my 
spiritual  being,  —  thank  God!  not  to  displace  a  sin- 
gle fibre  of  the  fabric.  But  there  has  been  such  a 
heaving  up  of  all  that  was  hidden  in  the  depths  of 
past  experience,  as  has  wellnigh  conquered  at  times 
my  self-control,  and  I  have  felt  that  I  must  utter  my- 
self, or  be  lost;  yet  to  no  one  have  I  dared  to  speak. 


332  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

John's  sickness  here  has  made  composure  with  him 

peculiarly  important Happily,  we   cannot  lift 

the   veil   of  the   future ;    we   can  only  be  ready  for 
whatever  may  be  in  store  for  us,  and  this  I  trust  we 

are I  have  been  prevented  from  writing  in  the 

daytime,  and  now,  at  eleven  o'clock,  I  am  compelled 
by  weariness  to  shut  my  eyes,  and  rest." 

"  August  30.  My  dear  Lucy  :  I  should  indeed  re- 
loice  if  you  were  able  to  be  here,  for  I  long  for  some 
communion  with  one  who  could  so  enter  into  all 
my  views  and  feelings  at  this  time  as  I  know  you 
would.  But  I  bow  in  submission  to  all  the  disci- 
pline which  God  appoints  for  me In  some  re- 
spects the  bitterness  of  the  stroke  has  passed.  I  felt 
that  the  real  separation  came  with  the  conviction, 
that  that  mind  with  which  my  spirit  had  so  long 
communed  in  the  truest  sympathy  was  clouded  for 
the  remainder  of  its  sojourn  in  the  body.  The  sense 
of  solitude,  of  isolation,  I  had  almost  said  desolation^ 
was  for  a  time  nearly  overpowering ;  and  there  are 
moments  when  life  looks  so  like  a  blank,  that  it  is 
not  easy  to  restrain  the  wish  to  go  too.  But  the  ne- 
cessity of  calmness  for  the  children's  sake,  feeling 
that  their  state  of  mind  would  inevitably  be  influ- 
enced by  the  tone  I  should  give  it,  has  aided  me  in 
preserving  a  quiet  exterior;  and  so  we  have  had  the 
great  comfort  of  peace  and  entire  freedom  from  agi- 
tation and  excitement.  God  give  us  strength  to 
j)rcserve  it!  But  this  weary  waiting  from  day  to 
day,  alternately  hoping  and  feeling  that  there  is  no 
reason  to  hope,  wears  upon  the  nerves,  —  the  days 
seem  interminable,  and  the  nights  ages Long 


LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM.  333 

as  I  have  looked  forward  to  this  change,  it  seems 
like  a  dream  from  which  I  must  awake,  —  as  if  it 
could  not  be!  No  wonder;  —  for  fifteen  years,  his 
health,  he  indeed,  has  been  the  first,  almost  the  sole, 
object  of  my  life.  It  will  be  long  before  I  can  turn 
even  to  my  children,  with  the  consciousness  that 
they  can  now  be  attended  to  without  neglecting 
him." 

The  struggle  was  over.  Henry  Ware  died,  at 
Framingham,  on  Friday  morning,  September  22.  A 
Sunday  intervened  before  the  body  was  removed  for 
burial,  and  that  day  Mrs.  Ware  went,  with  her  chil- 
dren, morning  and  afternoon,  to  their  accustomed 
place  of  w^orship ;  desiring  it  for  their  own  sacred 
communion,  and  believing  it  most  in  accordance 
with  his  feelings.  To  her  faith,  with  her  habitual 
view  of  duty  and  death,  this  was  probably  no  effort. 
To  many  it  would  be  impossible,  even  with  the  same 
faith;  for,  unhappily,  association  and  custom  are 
allowed  to  check  our  highest  aspirations  in  the  ho- 
liest seasons,  so  that  many  would  consider  such  an 
effort  unnatural  and  strange.  Is  it  not  more  strange, 
that  it  should  ever  seem  unnatural  for  a  Christian 
mourner  to  go  to  the  house  of  God,  in  the  most  sol- 
emn hours  of  life,  —  especially  when  that  house  is 
completely  identified  with  the  life  and  image  of  the 
departed  ?  Mrs.  Ware  was  grateful  also  for  the 
power  of  associating  the  idea  of  Death,  in  the  minds 
of  her  children,'  not  with  restraint  and  gloom,  but 
with  the  place  of  prayer  and  praise,  and  the  cheerful 
presence  of  devout  worshippers.  It  was  a  beautiful 
exemplification  of  her  high  trust,  in  harmony  with 


334  LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM. 

her  whole  character.  We  honor  the  princi})le,  and 
thank  her  for  the  act. 

True,  it  was  an  altered  and  saddened  house  to 
which  they  returned,  yet  saddened  by  no  gloomy 
aspect,  disturbed  by  no  busy  preparation.  There 
was  less  than  usual  of  care  and  hurry,  instead  of 
more.  "  It  was  a  holy  season,"  says  one  of  the 
daughters,  "those  days  after  dear  father  left  us ;  no 
bustle,  no  preparation  of  dress,  no  work  done  but 
what  was  absolutely  necessary;  it  was  like  a  con- 
tinued Sabbath."  Then,  on  Sabbath  evening,  after 
a  simple  religious  service,  the  "  precious  remains"  of 
the  husband  and  father  were  taken  in  their  owp  car- 
riage, by  the  wife  and  eldest  son,  to  Cambridge; 
where,  the  next  day,  the  more  public  ceremony  of  in- 
terment took  place. 

But  of  this  whole  experience  it  is  right  to  let  Mrs. 
Ware  speak  in  her  own  letters,  several  of  which  we 
add.  The  first  was  written  the  day  after  the  fu- 
neral, to  an  absent  child,  and  the  others  to  different 
friends  after  her  return  to  Framingham.  We  take 
them  from  among  many  written  at  that  time,  either 
in  answer  to  offers  of  sympathy,  or  as  a  relief  to  a 
burdened  heart.  Of  necessity,  they  contain  some 
repetitions  of  the  same  thought,  in  similar  language  ; 
but  it  is  best  to  give  them  as  they  are,  that  we  may 
.see  in  them  how  great  was  the  bereavement  and 
now  deep  the  anguish  of  one  whose  countenance 
was  always  cheerful. 

"  Cambridge,  September  26,  1843. 
"  My  dear  Child  :  — 

*'  I  use  my  first  moment  of  repose  to  write  to  you,  for  I 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  335 

know  you  will  long  to  hear  what  we  have  been  doing,  and 
as  far  as  possible  to  enter  into  all  our  thoughts  and  feelings. 
I  want  to  have  you  know  all  that  has  taken  place  since  you 
left  us,  and  shall  therefore  send  you  a  minute  detail  of 
every  day,  when  I  shall  have  time  to  write  it ;  but  now  so 
much  is  pressing  upon  me  which  demands  attention,  so 
many  duties  which  must  not  be  neglected,  and  which  be- 
long to  this  time,  and  must  be  performed  at  once,  that  I 
confine  myself  to  the  last  two  days. 

"  After  dear  father's  death,  I  told  Uncle  John  that  I 
wished  all  arrangements  with  regard  to  his  funeral  should 
be  made  in  accordance  with  grandfather's  feelings ;  and  I 
gave  it  wholly  into  his  hands  to  arrange.  He  came  up 
again  on  Saturday,  and  it  was  decided  that  we  should  come 
to  grandfather's  on  Monday  morning,  and  have  a  service  at 
his  house.  On  Sunday  we  all  went  to  meeting ;  we  felt  it 
was  good  to  go  to  the  house  of  God,  and  find  peace  to  our 
troubled  souls  in  the  act  of  worship.  About  six  in  the 
evening  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barry  came  to  us,  for  I  felt  that  T 
could  not  have  father's  body  leave  that  house  without 

'  the  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier, 
A  voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer.' 

He  read  to  us  some  passages  of  Scripture,  and  offered  for 
us  and  with  us  a  prayer  to  Him  who  alone  could  give  us 
strength,  that  he  would  aid  us  in  that  trying  hour.     We  had 

no  one  with  us  except  Mr.  and  Mrs.  W ,  whose  kindness 

was  most  valuable  to  us  during  the  last  days  of  father's  life. 
"  Then  John  and  I  brought  dear  father's  body  to  Cam- 
bridge in  our  own  carriage ;  we  could  not  feel  willing  to 
let  strangers  do  any  thing  in  connection  with  him  which  we 
could  do  ourselves.  We  reached  here  about  half  past  ten, 
having  had  a  season  of  precious  intercourse  upon  our  way. 
We  found  that,  in  accordance  with  the  wishes  of  the  College 
Faculty,  it  had  been  decided  that  we  should  go  to  the  Col- 
lege Chapel,  for  the  service,  at  half  past  three  on  Monday. 


3;jG 


I.IFF.    I\    FRAMING  HAM. 


"  On  Monday  morning  the  rest  of  the  family  came  down, 
and  all  the  aunts  and  uncles,  so  that  grand  father  had  all  his 
children  with  him.  At  three  o'clock  we  went  to  the  Chapel. 
The  students  attended  in  their  places,  and  the  pews  in  the 
gallery  were  devoted  to  us.  The  service  commenced  by  a 
voluntary,  and  the  anthem,  '  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd.' 
Dr.  Francis  prayed  ;  Dr.  Noyes  read  some  passages  from 
Scripture  ;  then  was  sung  the  463d  hymn.  Dr.  Parkman 
then  prayed  for  us,  in  his  most  touching,  heartfelt  manner, 
—  so  elevating,  so  soothing,  so  full  of  faith,  gratitude,  and 
hope,  that  it  subdued  all  earthly  emotion  and  took  away  all 
earthly  desire.  Although  very  minute  and  personal,  it 
seemed  as  if  one  might  have  listened  for  ever  without  a 
thought  of  self.  He  loved  father  most  sincerely,  and  all  he 
said  came  from  the  depths  of  his  heart.  I  had  shrunk  from 
the  thought  of  publicity  at  such  a  time,  in  such  a  connection, 
but  I  found  that  the  circumstances  about  me  were  wholly 
lost  sight  of;  it  made  no  difference  to  me  where  I  was,  or 
who  was  near  me.  I  felt  raised  above  all  minor  considera- 
tions. The  services  closed  with  '  Unveil  thy  bosom,  faith- 
ful tomb  ! '  We  all  went  to  Mount  Auburn  ;  that  is,  all  the 
family,  even  grandfather  and  dear  little  Charlie.  The 
weather  was  misty,  but  the  light  which  it  threw  around  was 
in  keeping  with  the  occasion,  and  I  thought  I  never  had 
seen  the  place  look  more  beautiful.  One  only  thing  I 
wanted  which  1  could  not  have,  —  the  sound  of  the  holy 
hymn  at  the  consecrated  spot. 

"Father  was  laid  in  Mr.  Farrar's  tomb,  — the  first  inhab- 
itant ;  and  I  felt,  as  I  looked  once  more  upon  him  as  he 
rested  there,  that  it  was  indeed  but  his  body  from  which  we 
were  to  be  separated  ;  his  spirit  is  still,  and  will  ever  be, 
with  us.  He  seems  to  me  nearer  to-day  than  he  has  for 
many  weeks,  and  the  thought  of  his  freedom  from  the 
burden  of  the  weary  flesh  is  sweet  indeed." 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  337 

"  Framingham,  SeptQmher  29,  1843. 
"  My  DEAR  Emma  :  — 
*'  I  cannot  write  you  more-  than  a  few  words,  I  am  so 
much  pressed  on  all  sides  by  matters  which  cannot  be  put 
off;  but  I  must  say  these  few,  to  assure  you  of  the  peace 
and  repose  which  are  with  us,  and  have  been,  I  may  say,  ever 
since  you  were  here.  O  that  you  had  been  with  us  longer, 
—  that  you  could  have  been  with  me  at  that  still  hour  when 
the  spirit  was  freed  from  its  prison-house,  the  weary  body  left 
to  its  rest !  And  it  was  rest.  Could  you  have  seen  the  very 
*  rapture  of  repose '  depicted  upon  that  face,  which  had  so 
long  been  disturbed  by  the  pressure  of  disease  that  its  very 
expression  had  been  changed  to  a  character  foreign  to  the 
whole  man  !  All  continued  of  the  same  peaceful  character 
which  pervaded  our  atmosphere  when  you  were  here,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  days  of  a  little  temporary  uneasiness 

about  the  time  C E was  here.     And  the  last  fatal 

attack,  coming  as  it  did  at  a  moment  of  rather  unusual 
brightness,  was  so  sudden  and  so  soon  over,  that  there  was 
no  time  for  change.  Dear  little  Charlie,  who  had  just  re- 
turned, was  at  the  moment  bounding,  in  the  height  of  his 
joyous  spirits,  from  one  side  of  the  bed  to  the  other,  ex- 
claiming, 'Sail  I  buss  the  flies  off  you,  father?  '  He  was 
taken  at  once  to  bed  ;  and  when  he  came  down  in  the 
morning  he  found  his  dear  father  lying  just  as  he  had  left 
him  the  night  before,  looking  only  more  peaceful,  more 
beautiful,  and  he  took  up  the  same  thought,  —  'Sail  I  buss 
the  flies  off  father,  now  he  has  gone  to  heaven  ?  '  I  felt  it 
a  peculiar  blessing,  that  all  the  circumstances  of  the  event 
were  such  as  to  make  any  movement  or  change  in  any  ex- 
ternal respect  unnecessary,  so  that  the  children  might  have 
their  first  associations  with  the  fact  of  death  without  any 
horror,  and  their  recollection  of  their  father  uninterrupted 
by  «Jiy  repulsive  details.  He  lay  in  his  bed  just  as  he  had 
29 


338  LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM. 

wl>en  talking  with  them,  until  he  was  removed  from  the 
house,  and  that  process  the  little  ones  did  not  witness.  1 
dcubt  not  it  will  give  a  tone  to  their  view  of  the  subject 
through  life.  But  why  should  I  dwell  upon  these  externals  ? 
Simply  that  you  may  dismiss  from  your  mind  any  thoughts 
of  distress  connected  with  us  at  that  moment ;  and  you 
know  all  that  I  can  tell  you  of  the  spirit  within. 

"  You  know  how  I  have  suffered  in  anticipation  of  this 
separation,  but  all  the  worst  agony  connected  with  it  is  yet 
to  come.  It  is  comparatively  easy  now  to  be  calm  and  firm 
and  thankful ;  the  first  thought  cannot  but  be  of  him  and 
his  present  happiness ;  and  the  sense  of  relief  that  the  suf- 
ferings of  that  blessed  being  are  over,  that  he  has  gone  to 
his  Father's  home,  '  to  the  house  of  his  rest,'  is  so  great, 
that  no  other  thought  dare  intrude.  I  long  to  see  you,  and 
hope  to  do  so  soon.  I  go  to  Cambridge  to-morrow,  to  be  in 
Boston  on  Sunday.  I  could  not  deny  myself  the  luxury  of 
going  once  more  to  that  house  of  his  religious  affections,  in 
connection  with  him.  That  spot  has  most  sacred,  most 
tender  associations  to  me,  so  full  that  it  would  be  enough  to 
sit  there  in  silent  meditation ;  and  if  I  feared  any  thing,  I 
should  fear  that  it  would  be  too  overwhelming  to  be  borne, 
to  go  there  in  public.  But  I  have  found  by  my  experience 
on  Monday,  that  the  surroundings  of  such  a  moment  are  of 
no  consequence.     I  have  a  quiet  faith  th;\t  the  strength  will 

come.     O,  may  improvement,  elevation,  come  also  ! 

John  leaves  us  soon.  He  and  I  had  a  holy  season,  as  we 
went,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  to  carry  those  precious 
remains  to  Cambridge. 

"  I  find  it  is  as  I  anticipated,  —  I  feel  a  greater  nearness 

to  my  husband  than  I  did  when  he  lay  on  his  couch  in  the 

next  room.     I  am  separated  from  \ha.t  form  ;  I  look  hack  to 

it  only  as  the  associate  of  the  spirit  in  health  ;  I  do  not 

cling  to  it  now.     Yours  in  all  love. 

"M.  L.  VV." 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  339 

"  Framingliam,  October  6,  1843. 

*'  My  dear  Mary  :  — 

"  The  first  moment  I  can  call  my  own  since  my  return 
from  Cambridge,  I  turn  to  you.  I  know  no  one  to  whom  I 
can  so  freely  pour  out  all  that  is  in  my  heart,  as  for  the  first 
time  I  pause  a  little  from  the  pressure  of  necessary  action, 
and  realize  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  every  thing 

about  me I  wanted  you  at  my  side,  when  I  stood 

once  more  at  that  sacred  spot  where  we  had  laid  our  dear 
sister's  image.  You  and  I  can  never  forget  that  moment. 
And,  though  not  near,  you  were  in  close  communion  with 
the  spirit  in  that  holy  hour. 

"  As  I  glance  back  at  the  period  which  has  elapsed  since 
you  were  here,  one  single  thought  takes  precedence  of  all 
the  rest.  It  is  astonishment  at  the  power  of  the  soul  to  sus- 
tain the  pressure  of  circumstances,  the  tension  and  excite- 
ment of  feeling,  the  necessity  of  positive,  energetic  action, 
when  the  very  heart-strings  seem  riven  asunder, — and  the 
capacity  of  sustaining  a  tranquil,  and  even  cheerful  aspect, 
when  'the  dull,  heart-sinking  weight'  of  a  vital  grief  is 
bearing  us  down,  down,  down,  —  one  can  scarcely  believe 
there  are  any  soundings  to  that  deep  gulf.  Yet  so  it  is ; 
and  does  it  not  open  our  vision  to  the  glorious  truth  of  the 
alliance  of  the  soul  with  its  divine  origin  ?  What  but  that 
inexhaustible  fountain  of  strength  could  sustain  us,  when 
the  waves  of  trouble  thus  threaten  to  overwhelm  us  ?  Rich, 
blessed,  indeed,  is  the  experience  which  brings  this  convic- 
tion to  our  minds ;  holy  is  that  season  in  which  we  can  live 
as  it  were  in  the  light  of  such  a  faith  !  And  holy  indeed 
has  it  been  to  me. 

"  I  feel  that  my  danger  now  is,  that  I  reluctantly  do  any 
thing  that  shall  remove  me  from  the  influence  of  the  atmos- 
phere which  it  seems  as  if  death  had  created  around  me. 
Death  }  transition  I  would  rather  call  it.     And  yet  let  ui 


olO  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

strive  to  disabuse  that  word  of  some  of  the  horrors  in  which 
education  has  wrapt  it.  O,  could  you  have  seen  how  mer- 
cifully it  was  stripped  of  all  its  terrors  to  us,  how  calmly 
that  spirit  left  its  earthly  tabernacle,  how  sweet  was  the  im- 
press of  peace  and  rest  it  left  upon  that  face  which ,  had  so 
long  almost  lost  its  own  expression  in  the  veil  that  sick- 
ness had  thrown  over  it !  Its  last  expression  would  have 
rebuked  the  slightest  wish  to  recall  the  spirit,  had  we  been 
so  selfish  as  to  have  indulged  one.  We  could  scarcely  be 
willing  to  be  separated  from  that  image  of  him  we  loved, 
so  powerfully  even  in  death  did  it  express  his  character. 
Even  the  little  children  preferred  being  there,  rather  than 
anywhere  beside;  and  will,  I  think,  all,  including  even 
little  Charlie,  remember  this  first  knowledge  of  a  death-bed 
as  a  beautiful  experience. 

"  The  first  part  of  Henry's  sickness  he  seemed  quite 
unconscious  of  what  was  around  him  ;  torpid,  and  at  times 
wandering  in  his  expressions.  But  the  last  three  weeks,  al- 
though still  unable  to  exert  himself  to  talk,  —  for  it  tired  him, 
he  said,  'even  to  think,'  —  his  mind  was  perfectly  clear;  in- 
deed, I  had  reason  to  suppose  his  mind  was  never  as  much 
clouded  to  himself,  as  it  appeared  to  be  to  us.  The  pres- 
sure upon  his  brain  was  so  great,  as  to  produce  great  diffi- 
culty of  action  of  any  kind  ;  his  ideas  were  often  clear,  bvit 
the  power  of  finding  words  to  convey  them  was  paralyzed. 
He  said  little  at  any  time,  and  yet  1  find,  in  surveying  the 
whole  period,  that  I  have  many  satisfactory  views  of  the 
whole  state  of  his  mind  in  relation  to  the  change  that  he 
was  making.  He  never  had  but  one  view  of  his  own  situa- 
tion ;  he  felt  decidedly  that  the  time  for  going  home  was 
come,  —  'the  fitting  time,'  'the  best  time';  and  he  was 
grateful  that  the  toil  of  sickness  and  inability  was  at  an  end. 
And  so  convinced  was  I,  that,  if  he  should  revive  from  that 
attack,  it  could  only  be  to  continue  to  suffer  still  more  than 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  i»41 

he  had  done,  from  inability  to  do  what  he  had  hoped  to,  this 
autumn,  for  the  good  of  his  fellow-men,  that  I  too  felt  that  it 
was  indeed  the  fitting  time.  And  so  intense  was  my  suffer- 
mg  from  the  apprehension  of  his  continuing,  for  years  per- 
haps, in  the  half-paralyzed,  half-torpid  state  in  which  he  lay 
for  so  many  weeks,  that  it  was  not  only  with  resignation,  it 
was  with  a  sense  of  relief,  that  I  saw  the  doubt  was  at 
an  end,  the  prisoner  was  released.  So  strange  is  it,  that 
that  event  to  which  I  had  ever  looked  forward  as  the  one 
thing  that  could  not  be  borne  in  life,  came  at  last  under 
circumstances  which  made  it  welcome !  Do  I  live  to  say 
it,  to  feel  it  ?  But  O  the  chasm  left  in  my  lot,  in  my 
heart !  Who  can  estimate  it !  No  one.  No,  '  the  heart 
knoweth  its  own  bitterness ' ;   no  human  being  can  enter 

into  it But  I  must  stop.     I  hope  to  see  you,  or  at 

least  hear  from  you. 

"  Yours  with  much  love. 

"  M.  L.  W." 

"  Framingham,  November  5,  1843. 

"  My  dear  Emma  :  — 
"  This  has  been  a  day  of  peculiar  trial  to  me.  At  no 
period,  since  the  commencement  of  Henry's  last  sickness, 
have  I  found  it  so  difficult  to  adhere  to  my  determination 
not  to  trouble  those  around  me  by  the  want  of  self-control. 
This  first  communion  service  since  that  sacred  occasion, 
when  we  together  witnessed  that  celebration  of  the  rite  by 
him  who  can  now  be  present  only  in  spirit !  I  feel  as  if  I 
needed  the  relief  of  utterance ;  and  to  whom  can  I  go  for 
this  relief  so  naturally  as  to  you,  who  are  strongly  asso- 
ciated with  the  remembrance  which  so  deeply  agitates  my 
spirit.?  It  frightens  me,  when,  upon  such  an  occasion  as 
this,  I  am  led  to  probe  the  nature  of  my  feelings,  to  find 
how  much  the  reference  to  him  in  his  spiritual  state  is  be- 
29* 


342 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 


coining  to  me  a  substitute  for  all  other  thoughts  of  heaven. 
Great  as  was  my  absorption  in  him  while  he  was  with  me 
here,  I  find  it  is  so  far  from  being  lessened  by  the  removal 
of  his  visible  presence,  that  it  has  only  changed  its  charac- 
ter into  an  idolatry  of  a  mere  alarming  nature.  It  is  so 
much  easier  for  me  to  conceive  of  his  presence  than  of  that 
of  any  other  spirits,  that  it  is  the  thought  of  his  inspection 
of  my  inmost  soul  that  dwells  perpetually  on  my  mind, 
whatever  I  do,  or  say,  or  think,  to  the  exclusion,  except  by 
an  effort,  of  the  idea  of  even  a  higher  presence.  What 
shall  I  do,  if  this  grows  upon  me  ?  How  shall  I  root  out 
this  enemy  to  Christian  improvement  ?  It  may  be  only  the 
first  effect  of  the  blow.  Time  may  modify  or  rectify  this  in- 
fidelity, —  I  trust  it  will ;  but  at  present  it  is  overwhelming. 
O,  how  deeply  do  such  seasons  of  strong  emotion  make 
me  realize  my  loneliness,  now  that  I  have  no  longer  that 
ever-ready  sympathy,  that  composing,  strengthening  coun- 
sel to  turn  to,  with  the  certainty  of  comfort  and  peace  in  the 
turning !  I  do  indeed  feel  his  presence  with  me,  but  my 
heart  calls  and  he  '  answers  not  again ' ;  there  can  be  no 
response  to  my  application.  How  deeply,  how  tenderly,  is 
he  associated  with  all  the  holiest  hours  of  existence !  It 
seemed  to  me  to-day  I  could  hear  his  voice  in  the  hymn 
which  had  so  often  been  read  by  him  on  the  same  occasion  ; 
I  could  anticipate  the  words  which  would  fall  upon  my  ear 
as  we  should  leave  that  service  together,  rejoicing,  as  he 
was  wont  to  do,  that  such  a  service  had  been  ordained  for 
weak,  sensual  mortals,  to  take  their  souls  sometimes  away 
from  flesh  and  sense  to  the  unfettered  contemplation  of 
heavenly  love.  Fully  do  I  realize,  that  the  sense  of  loss 
is  to  grow  with  every  added  day  of  my  existence ;  nothing 
can  come  near  enough  to  supply  it  in  the  least  degree  ; 
nothing  else  can  become  so  a  part  of  one's  own  self.  This 
ccnsciousness  of  desolation  must  press  perpetua'ly  like  a 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  343 

weight  upon  my  heart,  as  long  as  life  lasts.  And  yet  how 
strange  !  I  go  on,  and  every  thing  goes  on  outwardly  as 
before.  I  eat,  drink,  sleep,  talk,  and  laugh  with  others, 
whenever  it  is  important  for  their  comfort  to  do  so,  as  if 
nothing  had  changed.  In  the  midst  of  all,  I  stop  and  ask 
myself,  '  Am  I  dreaming  ?  '  Or  is  it  really  true  that  I  am 
alone,  —  that  that  point  has  been  actually  passed,  which  in 
anticipation  had  always  seemed  impossiUe  in  the  possession 
Df  any  power  of  action  .''  I  have  thought  that  the  trial  could 
not  be  borne  and  sense  left ! 

"  But  why  indulge  myself  in  this  strain  ?  I  find  I  cannot 
write,  or  even  think,  connectedly  ;  so  I  will  stop. 

"  Your  own  Mary." 

Language  so  strong  as  this,  from  a  nature  so  calm 
as  Mary  Ware's,  means  a  great  deal.  Nor  can  we 
marvel.  For  what,  a  change  is  that  through  which 
a  true  woman  passes,  —  from  wife  to  widow !  Is  it 
not  greater  than  even  the  first  change  ?  Often  has 
Mary  referred  to  the  difference,  which  few  could  feel 
as  she  had,  between  her  former  isolation  as  to  nat- 
ural ties,  and  her  adoption  into  a  large  and  united 
family  circle.  But  now  she  felt  the  change  through 
which  she  was  passing  still  more,  —  inasmuch  as 
she  had  a  more  profound  and  pervading  sense  of  all 
that  is  comprised  in  conjugal  affections  and  parental 
responsibilities.  And  while  none  can  have  a  higher 
standard  of  duty  and  obligation,  very  few  have  a 
meeker  estimate  of  their  own  powers ;  particularly 
as  regards  the  care  and  the  training  of  Children. 
This  was  to  be  now  her  great  work,  —  the  chief  ob- 
ject and  anxiety  of  her  remaining  days.  And  un- 
feiguedly  did  she  sin-ink,  not  from  the  task,  but  from 


344  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

the  vastness  of  the  trust  and  the  burden  to  be  sua 
tained  alone.  "  When  I  think  of  this  large  family  of 
little  children  to  be  left  to  my  care,  instead  of  Aw,  it 
requires  a  process  of  thought  to  feel  so  assured  that 
God  can  bring  good  out  of  seeming  evil,  and  work 
out  his  purposes  by  the  weakest  instruments,  as 
to  be  able  to  calm  the  throbs  of  anxiety,  and  say, 
'  Peace,  be  still ! '  to  the  troubled  spirit."  True,  her 
ideal  was  high,  and  she  could  never  be  satisfied  with 
that  which  would  more  than  satisfy  many  parents. 
Years  before  had  she  said  of  one  of  her  children : 
"  For  her  intellectual  progress  I  have  no  anxiety,  that 
is,  so  far  as  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  goes ;  but 
how  to  cultivate  the  moral,  so  that  it  shall  govern  and 
guide  this  intellectual  progress  into  the  right  chan- 
nels, and  establish  the  supremacy^  of  the  spiritual  in 
the  character,  I  know  not."  Again,  she  exclaims: 
"  And  these  are  Mary  Pickard's  children !  When  I 
go  back  in  recollection  to  Pearl  Street  days,  to  its 
long  hours  of  lone  watching,  when  my  mind  dwelt 
upon  the  deficiencies  of  my  condition  until  it  liad 
exaggerated  to  a  more  than  earthly  possibility  the 
happiness  of  having  something  to  love  which  would 
satisfy  the  desires  of  my  mind  and  heart,  —  and  then 
compare  that  longing  with  the  present  reality,  —  is 
it  strange  that  I  can  scarcely  realize  my  identity 
with  that  same  lone  one?"  The  time  had  now 
come  when  she  was  again  a  "  lone  one."  And  this 
is  what  we  would  say,  —  that  the  loneliness  which 
follows,  is  far  greater  than  that  which  precedes,  the 
knowledge  and  enjoyment  of  such  communion  and 
cooperation  as  she  had  known.      Nor  is  there  any 


LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM.  346 

thing  inexplicable  in  the  fact,  that  the  most  consci- 
entious, even  the  strongest  in  character  and  high- 
est in  aim,  suffer  most  from  a  sense  of  their  own 

• 
deficiencies,  and  use  language  which  seems  to  many 

exaggerated  and  hardly  sincere.  "  I  am  so  perpetu- 
ally oppressed,"  writes  Mary  at  this  time,  "  with 
the  sense  of  nothingness,  it  is  so  very  difficult 
for  me  to  realize  that  I  am  to  be  regarded  even  by 
my  children  as  the  leader  in  any  matter,  that  it  all 
but  frightens  me  to  have  any  one  look  to  me  as  one 
who  is  expected  to  have  some  influence.  This  is  no 
mock  humility ;  I  think  as  well  of  myself  as  I  de- 
serve. I  am  aware  that  it  grows  in  some  measure 
out  of  the  newness  of  my  position,  and  know  that 
time  and  habit  may  bring  somewhat  different  feel- 
ings ;  but  it  is  only  these  which  can  do  it,  and  I 
must  suffer  for  a  long  time  yet  from  this  as  well  as 
from  the  other  effects  of  isolation." 

We  are  the  more  willing  to  disclose  such  feelings, 
in  connection  with  such  character,  from  the  fact  that 
the  world  is  severe  in  its  judgment  of  those,  whose 
affliction  is  not  worn  as  a  garment  or  an  altered  vis- 
age, but  whose  whole  aspect  and  demeanor,  even 
their  occupations  and  apparent  enjoyment  of  life,  are 
nearly  the  same  as  at  other  times.  At  the  time  of 
her  writing  the  words  which  we  last  quoted,  Mrs. 
Ware  had  just  exerted  herself  to  collect  in  her  own 
desolate  home  a  little  circle  of  children  and  youth  for 
their  social  enjoyment,  in  which  she  freely  mingled, 
and  doubtless  seemed  cheerful  and  happy.  And  yet 
she  said  of  it  soon  after,  that  at  no  moment  since  her 
trial  had  she  felt  so  intensely  or  suffered  more  poig- 


346  LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM. 

nantly.  "  Every  word  was  an  Herculean  labor ;  and 
I  was  conscious  that  all  were  disturbed  by  it.  For 
once,  I  must  say,  I  could  not  help  it.  And  shall  I  tell 
you  all  my  wickedness  ?  I  have  in  vain  tried  to 
look  at  life  with  sufficient  interest  to  care  about  liv- 
ing. It  has  seemed  to  me  that  my  children  would 
be  as  well  without  me,  as  they  could  be  under  my 
imperfect  guidance.  I  could  not  excite  in  myselt 
any  of  that  zest  in  the  pursuit  of  an  object  which 
alone  could  satisfy  the  heart.  I  felt  homesick  when 
I  waked  up  in  the  morning,  and  would  fain  shut 
my  eyes  and  forget  that  there  was  any  thing  for  me 
to  do." 

How  much  she  did,  particularly  in  regard  to  that 
which  we  see  was  most  upon  her  heart,  the  care  and 
culture  of  her  children's  minds,  will  appear  in  larger 
extracts  which  we  make  from  letters  of  this  and  the 
previous  year,  brought  together  as  referring  to  the 
same  great  subject  of  education  and  domestic  disci- 
pline,—  the  first  having  been  written  to  her  hus- 
band, the  others  to  her  children. 

"  My  dear  Henry : When  I  am  left  to  the 

sole  care  of  my  family,  there  is  nothing  that  exer- 
cises my  mind  more  than  the  right  performance  of 
family  worship.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  ought  to  be 
more  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  capacities  of  children 
than  we  are  apt  to  make  it.  For  the  older  and  well- 
educated  part  of  a  family,  other  means  of  instruction 
and  communion  with  God  are  open  and  acceptable 
every  day ;  but  the  children  and  domestics  must  oi 
necessity  depend  upon  this  exercise  for  nearly  all 
the  religious  influences  of  the  day.     The  simplicity 


LIFK    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  347 

of  diction  which  would  fix  the  attention  of  even 
little  children,  would  not  be  too  plain  for  the  gen- 
erality of  domestics ;  and  we  all  feel  that  the  most 
simple  is  often  the  most  sublime  and  affecting  ex- 
pression in  relation  to  the  soul's  connection  with 
its  Creator.  I  think,  therefore,  that  the  main  object 
should  be  to  excite  in  the  minds  of  those  present 
some  clear  ideas,  which  will  be  likely  to  stay  in 
their  minds  through  the  day,  and  work  there  to  some 
definite  result ;  and  that  the  choice  of  subjects  should 
grow  as  far  as  possible  out  of  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  the  family,  —  not  merely  the  general,  but 
particular  circumstances.  For  instance,  if  they  are 
about  separating,  to  dwell  upon  the  use  to  be  made  o* 
such  an  event,  reminding  us  oi  final  separation  and 
the  tenderness  which  should  grow  out  of  that  thought 
towards  all  that  are  left.  Is  one  child  peculiarly  out 
of  humor  ?  It  will  do  no  harm  to  any  to  be  remind- 
ed of  the  importance  of  governing  our  passions ;  and, 
if  done  in  the  right  way,  subdue  the  rebellious  spirit 
more  than  any  arguments.  So,  too,  with  regard  to 
reading  the  Scriptures ;  it  seems  to  me  the  time  is 
all  but  lost  if  a  familiarity  of  the  words  only  is 
gained,  and  that  the  book  should  never  be  closed 
without  having  the  attention  fixed  upon  some  one  at 
least  of  the  useful  passages  read,  either  in  the  way 

of  explanation  or  application  to  duty I  have 

not  time  now  to  put  into  shape  half  that  is  in 
my  mind,  but  I  really  feel  that  we  do  not  do  justice 
to  our  children  in  not  acting  more  directly  upon 
their  religious  characters  every  day.  In  many  instan- 
ces, I  believe  a  wayward  spirit  might  be  checked  by 


348 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 


having  a  useful  current  of  thought  opened  for  it, 
which  would  take  off  the  mind  from  the  subject  ol 
irritation." 

"  Dear  E : Looking  at  affairs  at  home 

from  a  distance,  I  see  many  points  in  which  we 
need  improvement,  and  I  want  to  talk  and  read 
more  with  you  upon  the  subject  of  education. 

"  When  we  look  back,  and  see  and  feel  how  much 
the  circumstances  by  which  we  were  surrounded,  and 
the  treatment  of  those  about  us,  affected  oiu*  views, 
we  must  bring  it  home  to  ourselves  that  what  ive 
are  now  doing  is  having  the  same  influence  upon 
them.  God  has  set  us  apart  in  families  to  mark 
out  for  us  a  specific  line  of  duty ;  and  however  we 
may  wish  that  our  path  had  been  different,  or  our  du- 
ties less  arduous,  as  they  are  of  His  appointment,  we 
have  reason  to  believe  they  are  the  best  for  us.  The 
longer  I  live,  the  more  I  realize  the  value  of  love,  af- 
fectionate interest;  and  I  think  that  many  things, 
which  we  are  apt  to  consider  of  moment  at  the 
time,  ought  to  give  way  whenever  they  interfere  with 
the  cultivation  of  the  affections  in  children.  Dis- 
agreeable manners,  childish  though  annoying  ways, 
may  be  remedied  in  after-life,  and  are,  after  all,  mat- 
ters of  very  secondary  importance  in  comparison 
with  the  growth  of  love,  which  is  often  sacrificed  to 
them.  To  children  the  perpetual  irritation  of  a  check 
in  trifles  keeps  the  temper  in  a  turmoil,  and,  by  their 
standard,  makes  small  things  as  important  as  great 
ones.  Fault-finding  is  blame  to  them,  be  the  sub- 
ject what  it  may,  and  they  will  have  an  association 
of  jarring  and  displeasure  with  those  who  keep  it  up. 


LIFE    IN    FRAMING  lUM.  349 

lei  the  cause  be  ever  so  small,  as  lasting  as  if  it  were 
larger.  We  need  change  in  this  thing;  we  want  a 
more  cheerful  atmosphere,  a  more  affectionate,  inter- 
ested one,  in  which  the  affections   may  grow,  and 

have  room  to  expand.     I  do  believe  in   Mrs. 's 

doctrine  to  a  great  extent,  that  virtue  thrives  best  in 
an  atmosphere  of  love.  We  should  gain  our  object 
better,  if,  instead  of  finding  fault  with  an  action,  we 
set  ourselves  to  produce  a  better  state  of  feeling, 
without  noticing  the  action.  Children  imitate  the 
manners  of  their  elders,  more  especially  of  their  el- 
der brothers  and  sisters ;  for  of  course  they  feel  that 
they  are  similarly  situated,  not  always  making  the 
distinction  of  age  w^hich  is  expected  of  them.  And  I 
have  always  observed  that  the  younger  members  of 
a  household  take  their  tone  from  the  character  and 
ways  of  the  first  in  their  rank,  more  than  from  their 
parents.  I  could  name  many  instances  of  this  which 
have  come  under  your  notice,  as  well  as  mine,  and 
it  does,  as  you  say,  make  the  responsibility  of  an 
older  sister  great.  But  do  not  feel  that  it  is  too 
great;  be  contented  with  doing  all  that  you  can,  and 
not  discouraged  because  you  cannot  satisfy  your 
own  conceptions.  It  is  best  for  us,  it  is  said,  to  aim 
at  perfection  ;  even  if  it  is  not  to  be  attained,  it  keeps 
up  our  efforts  for  something  higher  and  higher." 

"  My  dear  E : The  old  saying,  that 

'  children  will  be  children,'  might  be  improved  by  the 
substitution  of  'should'  for  'will.'  I  mean  in  the 
sense,  that  their  natural  characters,  which  are  as  dif- 
ferent as  their  faces,  ought  to  be  educated  gradually ; 
not  requiring  of  one  child  any  tiling  because  another 
30 


UoO  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

child  does  it,  to  whom  the  thing  may  be  perfectly 
easy,  or  more  than  we  can  in  justice  require  of  them 
at  their  age,  in  consideration  of  their  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances. We  are  to  judge  and  discipline  a  child 
simply  in  reference  to  its  own  individual  character 
and  circumstances,  and  deal  with  it  with  the  single 
view  to  the  improvement  of  its  individual  character, 
rather  than  to  our  own  comfort  or  even  its  external 
improvement.  Now,  of  course,  the  application  of 
this  principle,  in  detail,  involves  a  great  deal  oi 
thought,  observation,  and  self-denial;  but  if  we 
really  desire  to  do  good,  and  this  opportunity  of  do- 
ing it  is  in  our  path,  can  we  engage  in  a  work  ol 
more  extensive  good,  when  we  consider  how  these 
children's  characters  are  to  influence  a  still  larger 
circle,  and  how  great  is  our  responsibility  to  future 
generations  as  well  as  the  present,  that  we  do  all  we 
can  to  prepare  the  way  for  their  best  instruction  ? 

But  to  come  down  to  our  own  case.     We  all 

take  too  much  notice  of  mere  disagreeables.  The  evil 
of  doing  this  is  obvious  ;  if  the  child  is  dealt  with  in 
the  same  way  for  making  a  noise,  or  for  carelessness, 
that  it  is  for  a  moral  delinquency,  it  soon  learns  to 
confound  moral  distinctions;  and  if  it  is  fretted  by 
being  perpetually  talked  to  about  small  things,  it 
is  easily  worked  up  to  a  state  of  irritation  which 
leads  almost  insensibly,  and  certainly  without  any 
design,  to  the  commission  of  some  moral  misde- 
meanor. I  think  we  may  often  see  this  with  all 
children,  and  it  is  very  clear,  in  svich  a  case,  that 
their  sin  is  as  much  our  fault  as  theirs.  We  should 
watch  our  own  state  very  carefully,  and  see  how  far 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  351 

our  desire  to  check  them  grows  out  of  our  own  pe- 
culiar state  at  the  time,  and  how  far  that  influences 
our  view  of  the  offence.  We  all  know  that  what  at 
some  times  we  feel  to  be  a  great  annoyance,  is  of  no 
consequence  to  us  at  others ;  and  for  the  same  rea- 
son, in  a  different  physical  state,  it  is  sometimes 
easier  for  them  to  control  themselves  than  at  others." 

"  Dear  E : I  think  it  is  good  for  young 

people  to  have  some  variety  in  life.  I  suffered 
much  from  the  want  of  it ;  and  I  trust  that  you  have 
too  much  good  sense  and  right  feeling  to  be  unrea- 
sonable in  your  wishes,  or  in  any  measure  unfitted 
for  the  duties  and  enjoyments  of  home  by  the  indul- 
gence. I  know  it  has  formerly  been  a  great  trial  ot 
your  patience  to  pass  from  the  irresponsible  position 
of  a  visitor,  to  the  occupations  and  responsibilities 
of  home.  But  I  trust,  as  you  grow  older  and  look  at 
life  more  and  more  with  a  clear  appreciation  of  its 
use  and  end,  you  will  take  more  and  more  delight  in 
the  consciousness  of  living  for  some  useful  object ; 
and,  despite  unpleasant  accompaniments,  find,  in 
using  all  your  powers  for  the  good  of  others,  a  pleas- 
ure beyond  any  to  be  derived  from  a  mere  indulgence 
of  taste.  We  cannot,  and  we  had  certainly  better 
not,  if  we  could,  choose  our  own  lot  in  life ;  we  know 
not  in  that  matter  what  is  best  for  us.  It  is  happily 
under  the  guidance  of  a  more  perfect  wisdom  than 
we  can  attain,  and  we  may  rest  in  faith  that  our  po- 
sition in  life  is  unquestionably  the  best  one  for  us,  or 
it  would  not  have  been  appointed.  Therefore,  dear 
E.,  remember  that  He  who  appointed  all  '  knows 
what  is  in  man,'  and  in  wisdom  and  love  adapts  our 


352 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGIIAM. 


trials  to  our  wants ;  and  the  very  fact  that  such  and 
such  things  are  particularly  hard  to  bear,  is  a  proof 
that  we  need  to  cultivate  just  those  virtues  which 
would  make  it  easy  to  us  to  bear  them." 

"  Most  people  think  it  as  well  that  the  young 
should  '  fight  their  own  battles,'  as  they  term  it,  and 
find  their  own  way  out  of  their  childish  troubles. 
But  I  believe  many  a  character  is  seriously  injured 
by  the  want  of  aid  in  its  petty  difficulties,  at  that 
period  when  the  right  principles  of  action  are  most 
easily  taught;  they  are  as  necessary  to  the  right  ad- 
justment of  small  matters  as  of  great I  do  not 

think  as  much  as  I  once  did  of  the  loss  of  constant 
intercourse  in  the  daily  routine  of  life,  in  cultivating 
family  affection.  I  believe  family  attachments  are 
sometimes  increased  by  occasional  separation.  But 
I  do  think  a  gi*eat  deal  of  the  loss,  to  a  girl,  of  all 
domestic  education,  for  the  whole  of  that  period 
when  domestic  occupations  can  best  be  leai'ned. 
Of  all  objects  in  life  there  is  none  more  distasteful 
to  me  than  a  merely  literary  woman ;  no  amount 
of  learning  is  a  fair  balance,  in  my  mind,  for  the 
feminine  graces  of  a  true  woman's  character.  It  is 
not  merely  that  she  looks  better,  clean  and  tidy,  or 
that  a  careful  use  of  the  needle  is  a  preventive  of 
waste  in  the  use  of  means,  —  although  these  are  con- 
siderations worth  weighing.  But  there  are  internal 
graces  connected  with  these  external  habits ;  and 
there  is  no  higher  object  for  a  woman's  life  than  the 
cultivation  of  those  powers  which  make  tiie  comfort 
of  a  well-ordered  household."  * 

*  A  strong  assertion ;  but  it  is  eviilcnt  that  Mrs.  Ware's  idea  of  a 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  353 

"  December  31,  1843.  The  last  day  of  this  most 
eventful  year!  Dear  Annie,  how  many  precious,  sol- 
emn thoughts  does  the  very  writing  its  date  suggest! 
In  all  the  future  years  of  our  lives,  be  they  many  or 
few^,  no  one,  it  now  seems,  can  bring  to  us  so  great, 
so  affecting  a  change  in  outward  things,  as  this 
year  which  is  just  passing  away.  It  is  not  only 
that  the  outward  circumstances  of  our  lives  are  to 
take  a  new  course,  because  he  has  left  us  who  was 
to  us  the  leading  and  controlling  spirit  in  all  that 
pertained  to  our  life  in  this  world,  but  that  we  shall 
no  longer  feel  the  perpetual  action  of  his  character 
in  the  daily  detail  of  the  education  of  our  souls 

"  Your  expressions  of  discouragement  and  anxiety 
about  yourself  touch  me  very  much.  I  can  enter 
fully  into  all  your  feelings,  for  at  your  age  I  was  not 
only  separated  from  the  loved  circle  and  influences  of 
home,  for  a  time,  but  I  lost  for  ever  my  chief  earthly 
dependence  for  aid  and  happiness  in  my  mother's 
death.  Thus,  being  left  to  myself,  I  was  led  to  a 
self-inspection  and  care  of  my  own  character,  which 
do  not  usually  come  for  many  years  after.  I  know 
all  the  trials  that  beset  one's  path  at  your  age,  for  I 
have  had  deep  experience  of  them ;  and  I  can  say 
with  confidence  to  you,  that  they  may  all  be  over- 
come by  a  resolute  will,  united  to  a  true  spirit  of 
humility.  Not,  perhaps,  in  one  year  or  two ;  but  I 
do  know  that,  by  the  persevering  use  of  the  means 
which  God  has  placed  within  our  reach,  in  reliance 
upon  and  earnest  seeking  of  the  aid  which  he  will 

"  well-ordered  household  "  comprised  all  that  the  Scriptures  mean  by 

the  direction,  "  Set  thine  house  in  order.'' 

30* 


354  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM. 

give,  we  shall  make  progress  in  the  Christian  life,  the 

only  life  which  can  give  us  any  satisfaction 

Seek  the  truth  in  your  own  character,  and  see  it  in 
others.  Fix  for  yourself  a  high  standard  of  excellence, 
and  never  '  tire  nor  stop  to  rest,'  until  you  have  put 
yourself  in  the  way  to  attain  it.  Stop  not  then ; 
there  is  no  stopping  in  this  world  (or  in  another,  I 

believe) Look   your  great  difficulties  full  in 

the  face ;  seek  not  to  gloss  them  over,  or  find  ex- 
cuses for  them.  You  have  them  as  the  means  of 
excellence,  by  giving  you  something  to  do,  a  mode 
of  applying  Christian  principle.     Use  them  as  such, 

and  faint  not 

"  One  thing  I  would  suggest.  You  have  been  in 
the  habit  from  earliest  childhood,  and  I  trust  are  still, 
of  praying  before  you  close  your  eyes  to  sleep.  I 
am  not  sure  that  you  have  always  done  the  same 
when  you  first  awake  in  the  morning.  I  know  that 
much  good  may  be  derived  from  thus  commencing 
the  day  with  some  private  devotional  exercise.  The 
time  given  to  it  must  of  course  depend  upon  circum- 
stances ;  yet  there  cannot  but  be,  under  any  arrange- 
ment, opportunity  for  at  least  the  offering  of  a  peti- 
tion for  light  and  strength,  to  meet  the  duties  and 
temptations  of  the  day  on  which  you  are  entering, 
and  a  thought  and  resolution  in  regard  to  some  par- 
ticular fault  to  which  you  know  you  may  be  prone. 
I  cannot  but  believe,  that,  when  the  day  is  so  com- 
menced, there  is  less  danger  of  yielding  to  tempta- 
tion than  if  no  such  act  were  performed." 

One  is  perplexed  to  understand  how  Mrs.  Ware, 

who  neglected  no  duty,  found  time  to  write  so  nmch 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  355 

lor  the  letters  here  ptiblished  are  a  small  part  of  all 
she  wrote,  and  scarcely  any  do  we  publish  entire. 
The  explanation  is,  that  they  were  written  after  every 
thing  else  was  done,  at  night,  and  very  late  in  the 
night.  It  shows  the  strength  of  her  frame,  that  she 
could  follow  this  habit  through  life,  till  near  the  end. 
We  suppose  it  to  have  been  very  rare  that  she  was 
not  up  and  at  work  beyond  midnight.  So  was 
it  particularly  during  the  winter  after  Mr.  Ware's 
death ;  when  her  great  solace  and  chief  occupation 
were  found  in  reading  and  arranging  the  immense 
mass  of  his  manuscripts  and  unfinished  works.  She 
says  in  December :  "  The  sense  of  the  uncertainty  of 
life,  which  is  always  awakened  by  the  circumstance 
of  death,  made  me  anxious  to  do  a  great  deal  with 
respect  to  Mr.  Ware's  papers,  which  no  one  could 
do  as  well  as  I ;  the  day  was  too  full  of  movement 
to  allow  an  opportunity  of  doing  this  before  even- 
ing, and  I  found  myself  night  after  night  poring  over 
manuscripts  until  twelve,  one,  and  two  o'clock,  for 
weeks  together."  This  is  not  mentioned  as  an  ex- 
ample to  be  followed ;  nor  is  there  reason  to  think 
that  it  is  ever  done  with  entire  impunity.  But  the 
work  to  which  she  thus  gave  herself,  through  that 
lone  winter,  was  one  of  pure  and  high  gratification. 
"  It  was  a  touching  employment,  not  melancholy. 
This  living  life  over  again,  when  all  its  sands  have 
been  '  diamond-sparks,'  not  dazzling,  but  reflecting 
the  bright  hues  of  heaven,  cannot  be  melancholy;  it 
is  but  a  type  of  future  blessedness." 

But  not  for  her  own  pleasure  alone  was  this  done. 
She    had    yielded    to   the   earnest  desire  of  all  the 


356 


LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM. 


friends  of  her  husband,  that  a  Memoir  should  be 
written,  and  many  of  his  letters  and  private  papers 
given  to  the  public.  Not,  however,  without  long 
deliberation  and  great  reluctance  did  she  give  her 
consent;  for,  as  we  have  said  in  the  beginning  of 
this  work,  it  cost  a  hard  struggle,  and  even  "  agony," 
to  open  to  the  public  eye  that  "sacred  inner  life" 
which  seemed  her  own,  and  only  hers.  But  here,  as 
everywhere,  she  soon  conquered  all  selfish  feeling, 
and,  taking  the  largest  view  of  usefulness  and  duty, 
afforded  every  facility  for  a  faithful  exhibition  of 
such  a  character.  To  her  son  she  says :  "  I  know 
that,  if  the  picture  of  what  he  was  is  to  be  a  true 
one,  it  must  have  all  those  beautiful  lights  and  shad- 
ows thrown  into  it  which  come  from  the  light  of 
the  soul ;  and  I  hope  to  be  able  so  to  lay  aside  all 
personal  consideration,  as  to  do  what  ought  to  be 
done  in  this  regard  to  make  the  work  as  useful  as  it 
can  be.  I  trust  you  will  feel  so  too.  In  our  horror 
of  gossip,  do  not  let  us  go  to  the  other  extreme,  and 
be  too  external  and  cold."  In  all  such  relations,  it 
was  a  great  part  of  her  principle  and  power  of  action, 
that  she  had  entire  faith  in  her  husband's  knowl- 
edge of  her  motives ;  with  the  added  conviction, 
that,  whatever  had  been  his  thoughts  and  wishes 
under  the  burden  of  the  flesh  and  of  disease,  he  was 
now  looking  only  at  the  highest  and  broadest  aspect, 
the  spiritual  and  eternal  issues  of  every  act.  Her 
communion  with  his  mind  seems  to  have  been  as 
habitual  and  actual  as  it  is  possible  to  conceive. 
Again  and  again  does  she  refer  to  it,  and  expresses 
regret  and  pain  when  a  doubt  is  raised,  or  a  check 


LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM,  357 

given  to  the  full,  cordial  assurance  of  the  "  fellowship 
of  the  spirit."  And  her  enjoyment  of  this  thought  was 
never  troubled,  but  rather  enhanced,  by  the  thought 
of  another,  with  whom  the  sharer  of  her  affections 
and  her  existence  was  now  reunited  in  heaven. 
Distinctly  does  she  refer  to  it,  in  writing  to  one  of 
the  children  of  those  parents  who  were  now  restored 
to  each  other.  "  I  never  experienced  the  sense  of 
continued  union  as  fully  as  now.  It  may  be  vision- 
ary, but  I  know  it  is  beneficial.  Your  mother  and 
your  father  are  as  much  really  present  with  me,  to 
my  consciousxiess,  as  if  Scripture  had  told  me  so,  it 
seems  to  me.  In  his  case,  it  is  but  a  continuation  of 
perfect  oneness ;  in  hers,  it  has  always  been  the 
sense  of  accountableness,  which  has  aided  it." 

We  attempt  no  concealment  of  our  wish  to  ex- 
hibit fully  this  rare  and  beautiful  feature  of  a  Chris- 
tian's faith  and  love,  —  less  rare,  we  would  fain  be- 
lieve, in  the  reality  of  its  existence,  than  in  the  cour- 
age that  avows  it.  We  value  it,  not  only  for  its  own 
sake,  in  a  connection  where  it  is  needed  and  may  be 
the  source  of  peculiar  happiness,  but  also  for  the  evi- 
dence it  affords  of  the  power  and  glory  of  our  relig- 
ion. We  find  a  letter  written  on  the  first  anniver- 
sary, after  Henry  Ware's  death,  of  her  decease  who 
had  been  the  object  of  his  earliest  attachment,  and 
whom  every  later  change,  in  life  and  death,  endeared 
the  more.  The  letter  was  written  to  a  child  of  that 
departed  mother. 

^''  Framingham,  February  5,  1844. 

"  Mv  DEAR  John  :  — 
*'  I  always  feel,  when  I  get  your  letters,  as  if  I  wanted  to 


358  LIFE    IN    FRAMINGJIAM. 

sit  down  and  write  to  you  at  once,  so  much  have  I  in  my 
mind  that  I  wish  to  communicate  to  you,  and  so  much  do  I 
enjoy  free  communication  with  you.  You  may  thank  your 
stars  that  I  do  not  give  way  to  my  incUnation,  for  you 
would  have  more  prosing  than  you  would  care  to  read.  I 
am  tempted  now  to  depart  from  my  usual  custom  of  writ- 
ing only  once  a  fortnight,  because  I  feel  so  much  the  want 
of  some  one  with  whom  to  commune  upon  the  subject 
which  cannot  but  occupy  my  mind  upon  this  day.  It  is  the 
first  time  for  seventeen  years  that  I  have  not  had  a  delight- 
ful conversation  with  your  dear  father  upon  the  event  of 
which  it  is  the  anniversary.  I  loved  to  hear  him  tell  me  of 
your  mother,  for  it  helped  to  strengthen  the  feeling  which  I 
have  loved  to  cherish,  the  sense  of  responsibility  to  her  in 
my  connection  with  her  children.  And  her  character  was 
so  fine  a  one,  and  her  early  experiences  so  much  like  my 
own,  that  I  always  felt  that  I  gained  wisdom  as  well  as 

pleasure  in  contemplating  it 

"  I  have  often  wished  I  could  convey  to  your  mind,  with- 
out the  intervention  of  words,  what  I  felt  to  be  the  ten- 
derness of  the  relation  in  which  1  stood  to  you  ;  for  my 
views  and  feelings  have  always  been  so  different  from  what 
I  find  to  be  general,  that  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
you  should  understand  them  without  such  communication. 
From  the  very  commencement  of  my  connection  with  your 
father,  I  have  realized  the  truth  of  my  long-cherished  theo- 
ry, that  the  strength  of  one  affection  does  not  interfere  in 
the  least  with  the  strength  of  another;  we  love  not  one 
brother  or  sister  or  child  the  less  because  we  have  an- 
other to  love ;  if  there  is  any  difference  in  the  degree,  it 
arises  from  other  causes  than  number;  and  I  know  not  why 
it  should  not  be  the  same  in  all  relations,  where  the  soul  is 
large  enough  to  take  so  wide  a  range.  I  would  thank  God 
for  this  special  blessing  in  addition,  I   might  almost  say 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHaM.  359 

above  all  others,  for  without  it  all  others  would  have  had  a 
bitter  ingredient.  It  has  been  one  of  the  purest  sources  of 
happiness,  that  we  could  dwell  together  upon  the  memory  of 
her  who  had  gone,  and  feel  an  equal  anxiety  and  interest 
in  fulfilling  her  wishes  towards  her  and  our  children. 

"  With  the  love  of  your  Mother.* 

One  other  letter  we  give  from  Framingham,  ad- 
dressed to  the  same  son,  in  relation  to  the  first  ex- 
periences and  discouragements  of  the  ministry.  Its 
plain  good  sense  may  be  of  use  to  some  other  begin- 
ners,—  confirmed  as  it  is  by  the  fact  disclosed  in  it, 
that  some  of  the  strongest  minds  and  most  success- 
ful ministers  have  suffered  in  the  same  way. 

"  Framingham,  March  15,  1844. 
"  My  dear  John  :  — 

" I  turn  now  to  that  for  which  I  most  wished 

to  write,  —  your  present  anxieties  in  your  professional  du- 
ties. I  cannot  indeed,  as  you  say,  help  you,  as  he  could 
have  done,  but  O  how  fully  can  I  sympathize  with  you !  It 
is  to  my  mind  only  the  reiteration  of  what  I  have  so  often 
heard  from  him ;  even  after  the  ten  years'  experience 
which  he  had  had  when  I  first  was  partaker  of  his  joys  and 
sorrows,  he  suffered  at  times  as  you  do  now  ;  and  the  details 
he  has  given  me  of  his  trials  when  he  was  first  settled 
would  equal,  if  not  exceed,  yours.  You  may  depend  upon 
it,  dear  John,  yours  is  a  common  experience  of  all  young 
ministers  who  have  feeling  and  sensibility  enough  to  be 
really  good  ministers ;  and  you  must  not-be  discouraged  by 
thinking  your  difficulties  grow  out  of  peculiar  disabilities. 
I  remember  hearing  a  parishioner  of  Mr.  Buckrninster  say, 
that  he  felt  so  much  his  incapacity  to  administer  comfort  to 
the  sick  and  afllicted,  that  it  was  distressing  to  see  him  in 


3b0  LIFE    IN     FRAMING  HAM. 

a  sick-room.  I  wish  you  could  talk  freely  willi  some  min- 
isters about  it.  I  have  no  doubt  you  would  find  it  more 
or  less  so  with  all,  according  to  their  natural  temperament. 
As  I  have  said  again  and  again,  it  is  well  to  keep  one's 
conscience  and  sensibilities  tender ;  it  is  well  to  realize 
one's  deficiencies  to  the  extent  of  making  us  humble  and 
energetic  to  improve,  but  not  to  make  us  despond  or  be 
discouraged ;  for  '  faint  heart  never  won '  the  prize  of 
goodness,  any  more  than  of  the  less  spiritual  objects.  I 
know  what  it  is  to  feel  that  more  is  expected  of  one  than 
can  be  accomplished  ;  and  it  is,  I  grant,  of  all  things  the 
most  distressing.  But  we  must  shut  our  eyes  to  all  such 
considerations,  and  go  on,  looking  only  to  the  standard  we 
have  in  our  own  minds,  striving  with  all  diligence  to  reach 
that,  and  be  satisfied  with  striving,  if  it  be  but  real,  hearty 
endeavor.  ...>..  I  remember  there  were  some  passages  in 
Taylor's  '  Holy  Living,'  which  used  to  be  a  great  help  to 
me  in  your  state  of  mind.  I  have  not  the  book  by  me,  and 
cannot  quote  the  words.     Fenelon,  too,  has  much  comfort 

for  one  thus  tried We  forget,  in  our  familiarity  with 

what  seem  '  commonplaces,'  that  they  really  contain  the 
great,  fundamental  principles  from  which  all  strength,  all 
consolation,  is  to  be  derived  ;  and  of  course,  when  the  vision 
is  quickened  by  present  need,  they  all  seem  to  be  worth 
more  than  at  any  other  time.  And  as  to  the  other  point, 
it  is  not  you  that  speak,  —  you  are  only  the  medium  by 
which  the  truths  which  God  spake  are  conveyed  to  the  out- 
ward ear;  you  are  only  His  instrument,  and,  while  you  are 
to  seek  to  supply  yourself  with  a  full  portion  from  the  foun- 
tain of  all  truth,  you  are  to  be  satisfied  to  present  it  as 
His,  not  your  own  ;  sympathizing  as  a  fellow-Christian,  not 
dictating  as  a  leader  and  guide.  I  see  no  other  way  in 
which  a  young,  inexperienced  minister  can  have  any  com- 
fort in  that  department  of  his  duties.     Many  reasons  come 


LIFE     FN    FRAMINCIIAM.  361 

10  me  which  may  account  for  tlie  greater  difficulty  in  cases 
of  sickness,  than  in  bereavement. 

"  Truly  your  Mother." 

While  looking  for  a  place  of  permanent  residence 
for  herself  and  family,  with  an  opportunity  of  doing 
something  for  their  support,  Mrs.  Ware  received  an 
earnest  invitation  from  a  gentleman  in  Milton,  to 
go  there  and  take  the  instruction  of  three  little  chil- 
dren, in  connection  with  her  own,  for  two  or  three 
hours  a  day.  On  many  accounts,  she  was  inclined 
to  accept  this  offer  at  once.  But  she  looked  well  at 
all  sides  of  it,  and  especially  at  its  moral  aspect  and 
probable  influence  upon  character.  One  is  struck 
with  her  plain  and  practical,  yet  comprehensive  and 
exalted  view  of  the  question,  where  so  many  would 
have  looked  only  at  the  immediate  and  tangible  ad- 
vantage. "  There  are  many  things  to  be  weighed 
before  so  great  a  step  is  taken.  Expense  is  of  course 
a  great  item,  but  not  the  greatest.  The  influences 
upon  my  children  must  be  the  first,  usefulness  the 
second,  and  the  possibility  of  living  without  debt  a 
sine  qua  non  anywhere.  Now  I  am  not  a  very  ro- 
mantic person,  and  am  not  disposed  to  live  under 
any  less  refining  influences  than  I  can  help.  But 
my  children  are  destined  to  work  for  their  living,  and 
I  wish  to  have  them  as  happy  in  doing  so  as  right 
principles  and  a  healthy  tone  of  mind  can  make 
them."  The  result  of  full  reflection  was  favorable 
to  the  plan ;  and  the  wisdom  of  her  decision,  while 
it  afiected  all  her  remaining  days,  became  more  and 
more  manifest  to  the  end.  From  that  moment  she 
31 


362  LIFE    IN    FRAMING  HAM. 

had  a  new  object,  demanding  and  creating  new  en- 
ergies. "  I  already  see  how  I  shall  be  a  great  gainer 
by  this  plan,  in  the  strength  of  the  stimulus  it  will 
offer  to  mental  effort.  In  fact,  I  begin  to  realize  that 
I  am  more  exhausted  mentally  than  I  am  physically, 
by  the  anxieties  of  the  past,  and  absolutely  need  the 
application  of  salutary  mental  medicines,  as  my 
body  would  of  physical,  if  it  had  suffered  in  propor- 
tion." 

Thus  another  change  was  to  be  made,  —  and  the 
last,  in  a  life  of  change.  It  cost  an  effort.  "  This 
first  going  forth  alone,  to  bear  new  responsibilities,  to 
make  a  new  experiment,  unaided  by  his  strength, 
unassisted  by  his  wisdom,  —  this  is  indeed  to  realize 
the  loss  of  his  companionship  as  I  have  not  done  be- 
fore. But  that  blessed  faith  !  that  faith  in  Him  who 
is  '  the  strength  of  the  lonely,'  —  I  have  a  trust  that 
it  will  be  sufficient  for  me,  although  I  cannot  now 
see  how." 

A  few  lines  to  one  of  her  children,  as  the  last 
record  on  that  sacred  spot,  closes  the  life  at  Fram- 
ingham. 

"  March  26,  1844.  I  think  you  will  like  to  have  a 
few  words  written  from  this  room,  consecrated  as  it 
is  to  us,  by  having  been  the  last  earthly  home  of 
dear  father's  spirit.  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  sit 
in  this  spot;  and  I  feel  as  if  all  the  memories  of  the 
past  were  concentrated  in  this  moment  of  time. 
How  much  do  they  tell  of  the  peaceful  and  holy  life 
which  was  here  closed;  how  much  recall  of  that  tri- 
umphant struggle  with  the  weakness  of  humanity! 
Dear  child,  may  we  never  lose  the  influence  of  those 


LIFE    IN    FRAMINGHAM.  36H 

last  days  passed  in  this  place ;  may  it  strengthen, 
encourage,  quicken  us  to  all  diligence  in  our  Chris- 
tian warfare ;  knowing  that,  if  we  strive  as  he  did, 
we  too  may  enter  into  that  rest  which  we  doubt  not 
he  has  attained.  This  is  a  holy  hour,  —  this  leav- 
ing the  things  that  are  behind,  and  stepping  for- 
ward into  a  new,  untried  scene  of  life's  discipline,  — 
alone,  —  and  yet  not  alone,  for  the  Father  is  with 
me." 


XIII. 
LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

"  Life  in  Milton  is  a  very  different  thing  to  me,  if 
you  are  here  or  elsewhere ;  but  I  warn  you  against 
letting  me  cling  to  your  sympathy,  as  I  may  if  you 
give  me  so  much  of  it.  I  have  such  a  sense  of  vac- 
uum in  life,  that  I  am  in  danger  of  leaning  upon  any 
one  who  will  let  me  lean  upon  him ;  and  my  sense  of 
impaired  powers  is  so  constant  and  oppressive,  that 
I  need  to  be  driven  to  action,  rather  than  spared  it, 
to  rouse  my  energies.  This  is  no  false  modesty;  I 
am  sure  that  I  am  not  myself;  I  have  not  yet  come 
to  act  freely  in  my  new  position  in  life;  I  am  not 
'  at  home,'  —  shall  I  ever  be  in  this  world  ?  " 

Thus  did  Mary  Ware  write  to  a  friend  and  true 
sympathizer,  whose  residence  in  Milton  was  one  of 
the  great  inducements  that  had  drawn  her  to  that 
place.  She  had  been  there  but  a  short  time,  and  had 
not  yet  risen  from  the  complete  exhaustion  of  body 
and  mind  —  the  effect  of  years  of  solicitude,  exertion, 
and  suffering  —  for  which  she  made  too  little  allow- 
ance. She  had  been  more  than  mortal,  if  she  had 
not  felt  the  effect,  especially  in  the  inevitable  reac- 
tion when  the  great  anxiety  and  demand  ceased. 
She  would  not  allow  that  or  any  thing  to  plead  for 
-her;  and  her  danger  was,  as  we  have  seen,  that  of 


LIFE    IN    Mil. TON.  3G6 

forgetting  the  designed  and  necessary  sympathy  be- 
tween body  and  mind.  She  did  not  always  forget 
it.  Her  balanced  mind  led  her  to  suspect  the  true 
cause  of  the  change  that  had  come  over  her ;  and 
she  confessed  that  what  she  had  called  "  a  stroke  of 
mental  paralysis  "  was  only  physical,  though  affect- 
ing for  a  time  all  the  powers.  Still  she  was  inclined, 
through  its  own  unconscious  influence,  to  give  it  a 
different  name.  "  I  doubt  not  you  will  smile  at  my 
quick  sensibility  to  every  thing  which  is  like^y  to  in- 
jure myself;  and  I  am  deeply  convinced  that  I  am 
growing  more  and  more  selfish."  Selfish  in  moral 
sensibility!  May  we  not  be  instructed  by  this,  as  by 
the  other  aspects  of  her  eventful  life  ?  There  is  good 
sense  in  the  pleasantry  of  her  words  to  Emma  not 
long  before,  in  regard  to  power.  "  I  sometimes 
wonder  whether  you  and  I  are  doing  ourselves  or 
our  constituents  justice,  —  whether  we  do  not  at- 
tempt too  much,  to  do  any  thing  as  it  had  best  be 
done,  —  whether  we  secure  sufficient  repose  of  mind 
to  keep  our  judgments  clear,  our  thoughts  bright, 
and  the  supply  of  mental  food  what  it  ought  to  be 
to  enable  us  to  have  the  best  influence  of  which  we 
are  capable." 

The  first  letter  which  we  find  dated  at  Milton  dis- 
closes much  both  of  the  inward  and  the  outward 
state. 

" Milton,  June  W,  1 844. 

"  Dear  N : 

"You  have  no  doubt  expected  long  ago  to  hear  from 
me.     You  had  a  right  to  do  so,  and  must  have  wondered  at 
my  silence,  as  I  could  not  but  know  how  much  you  must 
31* 


306  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

wish  to  hear  of  our  new  life.  But  I  have  purposely  for- 
borne to  write  ;  I  could  not  have  addressed  myself  to  you, 
without  uttering  all  that  was  passing  in  my  mind  and  heart ; 
and  so  perfectly  chaotic  has  been  the  state  of  my  feelings, 
that  I  was  sure  it  was  best  to  wait  until  time  and  expe- 
rience had  arranged  and  quieted  them,  before  I  trusted  my- 
self to  the  slightest  expression.  It  was  as  if  the  fountains 
of  the  great  deep  of  my  soul  were  broken  up,  and  the 
waters  were  overwhelming  every  power  and  faculty.  I 
thought  I  had  anticipated  the  whole  amount  of  suffering 
which  my  isolation  was  to  bring  to  me,  and  vainly  imag- 
ined that  1  was  prepared  to  meet  it  with  a  firm  mind  ;  but 
nothing  but  experience  can  picture  the  agonizing  sense  of 
desolation,  which  entering  upon  a  new  life,  unaided  by  the 
sympathy  that  has  been  so  long  the  light  of  life,  brings  to 
me.  Nothing  in  life  can  come  near  it,  unless  it  be  the 
homesickness  of  a  little  child,  when  for  the  first  time  it  finds 
itself  in  new  scenes  without  its  mother's  presence.  At 
Framingham  I  was  but  living  out  the  plan  of  life  which  we 
had  formed  together ;  the  sense  of  association  was  not  for  a 
moment  lost,  and  it  was  comparatively  easy  to  realize  the 
continued  presence  of  the  spirit.  But  on  leaving  that  home, 
I  seemed  for  the  first  time  to  be  cast  upon  the  world  alone, 
and  every  moment's  experience  in  Boston  and  elsewhere 
only  increased  this  feeling,  until  it  reached  its  height  in  the 
necessity  of  forming  here  a  new  plan  of  existence,  under 
circumstances  of  great  responsibility,  —  alone.  I  used  to 
think  I  felt  all  of  loneliness  that  could  be  felt,  in  that  little 
chamber  in  Pearl  Street,  and  that  humble  cottage  in  Os- 
molherly ;  but  that  was  nothing  to  this.  I  had  then  never 
known  what  perfect  sympathy  was ;  I  could  not  understand 
as  I  now  do  its  loss.  1  have  been  a  puzzle  to  myself;  but  1 
still  am  sure  that  I  would  not  change,  one  iota,  the  decree 
of  Heaven 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  367 

"  We  ca^ne  hither  the  last  week  in  April,  and  fino  every- 
thing pleasant,  and  every  body  kind.  As  far  as  I  can  yet 
see,  I  think  I  anticipated  very  truly  the  pros  and  cons  of  the 
case,  not  excepting  my  own  incapacity  for  the  employment. 
One  would  laugh  at  the  idea  of  a  woman  of  forty-five  doubt- 
ing her  capacity  to  teach  children  their  letters  ;  but  the  intel- 
lectual is  the  least  part  of  the  concern  to  my  view,  and  I  still 
think  I  have  no  tact  for  the  education  of  children.  The  little 
I  can  do  for  my  own  is  through  the  connection  which  nature 
has  established,  not  a  power  of  my  own  acquisition.  I  have 
determined  to  try  the  experiment  for  a  year,  and  the  result 
only  can  decide  the  question  of  the  expediency  of  pursuing 
it  another  year.     I   must  consider  the   good  of  my   own 

children  first,  of  course My  time  is  entirely  filled, 

from  early  rising  to  very  late  sitting.  The  only  time  I  can 
take  for  writing  is  at  night  when  all  are  in  bed,  and  I  ought 
to  be ;  for  the  constant  bustle  of  children  wearies  my  head 
much. 

"  Yours,  as  ever,  lovingly. 

"  M.  L.  W." 

So  far  from  mental  infirmity  or  loss,  the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Ware  was  never,  we  should  say,  more  active  or 
energetic  than  at  this  time,  as  soon  as  she  was  wholly 
rested.  It  is  obvious,  indeed,  that  the  growth  of  the 
mind  had  kept  pace  in  her,  as  in  many,  with  the 
growth  of  the  affections  and  higher  aspirations.  In 
such  a  character  and  life,  mental  and  spiritual  are 
nearly  synonymous.  The  spiritual  had  been  always 
in  exercise,  sharply  disciplined  and  expanded.  And 
thus  chiefly,  thus  only,  we  may  almost  say,  had  she 
advanced  mentally.  For  she  was  not  a  student. 
No  period  of  her  life  had  permitted  her  to  be  an  ex- 


368  LIFE    IN     MILTON. 

tensive  or  habitual  reader.  Persons,  and  not  books, 
events  and  experiences,  were  her  study.  She  lost  no 
opportunity  of  direct  instruction,  but  she  made  it 
subservient,  or  rather  concomitant,  with  other  en- 
gagements and  positive  duty.  And  no  better  mental 
discipline,  perhaps,  could  she  have  had,  in  connection 
with  the  communion  she  enjoyed  with  the  best 
minds,  and  the  lessons  of  her  lot.  We  see  the  effect, 
and  the  progress,  continually.  There  is  a  striking 
difference  between  her  earlier  and  later  letters.  We 
have  felt,  in  fact,  that  injustice  may  have  been  done, 
in  giving  so  many  of  not  only  the  early,  but  the  un- 
studied and  hurried,  productions  of  one  so  pressed 
and  unpretending.  But  they  all  serve  to  shovv  her 
as  she  was. 

If  we  mistake  not,  vigor  rather  than  feebleness 
will  be  seen  in  her  remarks  upon  that  vast  and  inex- 
haustible subject,  which  now  engaged  her  most, -# 
education.  She  had  always  thought  herself  incom- 
petent to  teach  ;  and  no  burden  or  responsibility  did 
she  feel  more  painfully,  than  that  of  oj^ening,  fur- 
nishing, and  guiding  the  nii.ids  of  children.  This 
can  never  seem  a  light  or  easy  task,  unless  to  the 
superficial  in  self-knowledge  and  conscientiousness. 
Where  the  religious  principle  and  the  moral  aim  are 
like  hers,  we  can  understand  any  ccnfessions  of 
humility  or  distrust,  in  view  of  such  a  work;  and 
we  do  not  doubt  the  entire  sincerity  of  the  fear  she 
more  than  once  expressed,  that  she  had  almost  done 
wrong-  in  giving  up  the  reluctance  she  at  lirst  felt  to 
assume  the  office  of  a  wife  and  mother,  on  account 
of  her  disqualification  for  s'o  great  u  charge.     And 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  369 

now  that  it  had  become  an  undivided  charge,  now 
that  her  children  were  left  to  her  alone,  and  she  had 
engaged  to  be  their  teacher  and  sole  guardian,  she 
felt  that  the  duty,  the  solicitude,  and  the  happiness 
of  her  life  were  centred  there.  "  O  my  dear  child! " 
—  she  exclaims,  in  addressing  one  of  them,  and  re- 
ferring to  all,  —  "  when  I  think  of  what  you  may  he,, 
my  heart  beats  almost  impatiently  to  stretch  forward ; 
for  if  life  is  ever  again  to  have  any  zest  to  me,  ever 
to  seem  like  life,  it  must  be  through  the  successful 
struggles  of  my  children.  On  them  I  now  must  rely 
for  all  I  can  enjoy  of  this  world  ;  their  affection,  their 
character,  must  be  my  sole  dependence." 

In  a  letter  to  Emma,  a  little  later,  she  speaks  of 
her  suffering  from  the  real  or  imagined  loss  of  power, 
particularly  in  reference  to  the  young.  "  I  sometimes 
think  that  some  strange  change  has  taken  place  in 
my  'physical';  for  I  cannot  otherwise  account  for 
the  torpor  which  hangs  over  my  mind.  All  the  little 
animation  I  ever  had  seems  to  have  departed ;  and,  al- 
though my  mind  is  crowded  with  thoughts,  they  are 
a  dead  letter  when  I  attempt  to  use  them  for  pur- 
poses of  conversation.  I  feel  this  to  be  a  great  evil 
in  my  intercourse  Vv'ith  children.  To  be  sure,  their 
own  inexhaustible  spirits  are  mostly  sufficient  to  their 
happiness ;  yet  they  need  sympathy,  not  formally  ex- 
pressed, but  existing  in  the  atmosphere  about  them. 
1  think  I  have  felt  the  want  all  my  life  of  a  more 
cheerful  home  in  early  childhood,  a  fuller  participa- 
tion in  the  pleasures  and  'follies'  of  youth.  I  want 
to  have  my  children  remember  their  home  as  the 
happiest  spot,  because  the  most  syp"  pathetic  as  well 
as  the  most  loving." 


370  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

Of  Mrs.  Ware's  seven  children,  all,  excepting  the 
oldest  son,  made  part  of  the  family  circle,  with  oc- 
casional absences  at  school.  To  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters wh6  was  absent  most,  there  are  many  letters 
containing  well-defined  thoughts  on  intellectual  and 
moral  discipline,  and  disclosing  more  fully  the  fact 
of  her  own  trials  of  temper  in  early  life,  to  which 
we  have  before  alluded,  but  which  many  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  believe.  From  these  letters  we  take  the  pas- 
sages that  follow,  the  first  relating  to  a  visit  to 
Framingham. 

''Milton,  October  1,  1844.  O,  I  did  so  enjoy 
being  upon  that  sacred  spot,  living  over  again,  as  we 
can  scarcely  do  but  by  the  power  of  association,  all 
the  details  of  the  holy  time  of  which  that  day  was 
the  anniversary  I  I  felt  that  it  strengthened  my  faith 
and  trust,  that  I  could  recall  there  something  of  the 
gratitude  which  T  felt  when  that  weary  spirit  was 
just  emancipated.  I  had  needed  this ;  for  as  the 
cares  and  responsibilities  of  life  have  pressed  more 
and  more  upon  me  every  day  I  have  since  lived,  their 
accumulated  weight  was  beginning  to  keep  down 
and  obscure  that  brighter  vision  which  faith  then  re- 
vealed. I  had  a  delightful  walk  alone  in  the  woods, 
recalling  the  sweet  words  which  I  had  had  with  dear 
father  when  we  strolled  through  those  woods  together. 
How  strong  is  the  power  of  association !  I  found 
that  particular  spots  revived  thoughts  which  he  had 
uttered  when  there,  which  perhaps  I  should  never 
again  have  recalled,  elsewhere." 

"  October  18,  1844 I  have  determined,  as  a 

fixed  principle,  not  to  go  beyond  my  income,  for  any 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  371 

thing  short  of  necessity,  and  it  is  a  delicate  question 
to  settle  what  necessity  is.  I  choose  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  there  never  can  be  a  question  in  any  of 
our  minds,  that  taste  is  to  be  held  in  subjection  to 
principle,  and  I  am  not  only  willing,  but  desirous,  to 
indulge  taste,  within  that  limitation,  to  the  utmost 
bounds  of  my  ability.  I  think  a  refined  taste  has  an 
indirect,  but  certain  influence  upon  morals ;  and  I 
never  can  believe  that  one  of  my  children  will  ever 
for  an  instant  be  pained  at  any  restraint  put  upon 
them  by  a  necessity  which  God  has  ordained. 

"  I  have  great  sympathy  with  the  struggles  of  young 
people  in  this  matter.  I  well  remember  how  often  I 
had  to  school  myself  (for  you  know  that  many  of 
my  associates  in  early  life  were  of  the  wealthy 
classes),  when  I  saw  my  companions  gratifying  every 
wish  for  amusement,  instruction,  and  dress,  while  I 
could  only  just  keep  decent  enough  not  to  shock 
them,  and  had  to  give  up  all  my  longings  for  expensive 
amusements  and  accomplishments.  But  I  had  this 
great  advantage,  by  mixing  familiarly  with  the  rich, 
—  I  soon  discovered  that  neither  goodness  nor  hap- 
piness were  dependent  upon  these  adventitious  cir- 
cumstances, and  I  was  so  fortunate  in  the  characters 
of  those  whom  I  thus  dealt  with,  as  to  be  made  to 
feel  very  early  in  life  that  my  own  position  among 
them  was  not  in  the  least  degree  affected  by  externals. 
I  soon  began  to  look  upon  my  oft-turned  dress  with 
something  like  pride,  certainly  with  great  compla- 
cency; and  to  see  in  that,  and  all  other  marks  of  my 
mother's  prudence  and  consistency,  only  so  many 
proofs  of  her  dignity  and  self-respect,  —  the  dignity 


372  LIFE    IN    MII.TON. 

and  self-respect  which  grew  out  of  her  just  estimate 
of  the  true  and  the  right  in  herself  and  in  the  world. 
I  can  distinctly  remember  coming  to  this  conclusion 
upon  the  occasion  of  wearing  an  old-fashioned,  stiff, 
purple  silk  dress,  with  a  narrow  plaited  tucker  in  it, 

to  a  party  at  Colonel  P 's,  about  the  year  1808 ; 

I  have  never  had  any  trouble  on  that  score  since.  I 
did  shed  some  tears,  when  I  found  I  must  give  up 
iny  long-cherished  hope  of  learning  music,  some  years 
after,  but  they  were  '  natural  tears,'  and  '  wiped 
soon.' 

"  But  I  have  become  garrulous,  talking  about  my 
youth  (as  old  people  are  apt  to),  and  have  wandered 
from  the  case  in  hand." 

"  November  8, 1844.  I  feel  that  I  must  have  some 
free  communication  with  you,  for  my  heart  is  full  to 
overflowing.  That  I  can  understand  all  your  internal 
trials,  I  have  often  assured  you ;  and,  strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  you,  it  is  from  experience  that  I  am 
enabled  to  enter  into  them.  In  the  solitude  of  my 
early  days,  the  consciousness  of  unworthiness  preyed 
upon  my  spirit,  until  I  persuaded  myself  that  every 
body  despised  me,  that  I  was  nothing  to  any  one, 
that  nobody  could  care  for  me  for  my  own  sake. 
Many  and  many  a  night  have  I  lain  and  thought  of 
this,  and  looked  at  life  through  this  medium,  until 
I  wished  that  I  had  never  lived,  and  in  my  agony 
have  cried  myself  into  perfect  hysterics.  Even  my 
mother's  love  failed  to  satisfy  me,  for  I  thought  it 
was  only  an  involuntary  feeling  for  an  only  child, 
not  depending  upon  or  growing  out  of  my  own 
deserts.     O,  how  many  jirccious  hours  of  life  have 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  373 

I  thrown  away  in  uselessness  to  others,  and  in  misery 
for  myself,  by  this  morbid  sensibility !  Would  that 
I  could  recall  them  !  Would  that  my  example  might 
ward  off  from  you  like  regrets  !  I  had  suffered  many 
years  from  this  cause  before  I  discovered  the  true 
source  of  my  trial,  or  caught  a  glimpse  of  its  remedy. 
And  when  at  last  it  flashed  upon  me,  that  it  was  the 
want  of  true  Christian  humility,  not  the  real  con- 
viction of  inferiority,  which  led  to  all  this,  I  could 
not  at  once  credit  my  own  consciousness ;  and  many 
and  severe  were  the  mental  exercises  by  which  I  was 
led  at  last  to  understand  and  feel  the  truth.  I  believe 
this  to  have  been  a  constitutional  tendency ;  and  how- 
ever much  the  demon  may  have  been  brought  under 
subjection,  there  have  been  times  all  along  life,  that 
it  has  so  striven  for  the  mastery,  that  I  have  feared 
it  might  conquer.  But  knowing  one's  danger  is 
more  than  half  the  security  against  it,  and  I  have 
gained  in  happiness  more  than  a  compensation  for 
the  warfare. 

" When  we  find  ourselves  disturbed  in  spirit, 

we  very  naturally  refer  to  the  exciting  cause  as  an 
excuse  for  it ;  and  however  we  may  blame  ourselves, 
we  still  feel  that  those  whose  wrong-doing  irritates 
us  are  really  the  most  to  blame.  But  we  must  get 
away  from  this  view  of  things,  if  we  ever  hope  to 
improve  ourselves.  As  long  as  we  live  in  the  world, 
v/e  are  to  live  with  those  who  do  wrong.  We  can 
never  be  perfect,  nor  can  we  find  others  who  are ; 
and  our  care  should  be,  to  learn  so  to  control  our- 
selves, that  not  only  shall  we  cease  to  be  tempted  to 
do  wrong  by  their  wrong-doing,  but  also  cease  to 
32 


374  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

tempt  them  by  our  own.  And  who  can  doubt  that 
tlie  best  hope  of  improving  them  is  by  showing  them 
the  advantage  of  self-control?" 

"  December  12,  1844.  I  feel  that  you  have  begun 
the  great  work  of  self-education  with  a  resolute  will 
and  I  pray  God  to  give  you  strength  to  pursue  it 
without  faltering.  I  do  not  expect,  and  you  must 
not  expect,  that  all  can  be  done  at  a  stroke.  A 
whole  life  is  too  little  for  the  attainment  of  all  we 
desire ;  but  having  fairly  set  ourselves  at  work,  let  us 
go  on  hopefully,  cheerfully,  laboring  diligently, '  know- 
ing that  we  shall  reap,  if  we  faint  not' ;  and  remem- 
bering that,  as  we  ascend,  the  prospect  widens  before 
us.  And  although  we  may  be  tempted  to  be  dis- 
couraged, as  we  see  more  and  more  to  be  done,  we 
are  to  look  back  upon  the  path  we  have  trodden,  and 
measure  the  steps  we  have  taken,  and  find  comfort 
and  encouragement  in  the  past,  for  the  future.  Go 
on,  in  the  fear  and  love  of  God,  in  the  path  which 
he  has  marked  out,  the  path  of  right  principle,  —  and 
fear  not,  —  all  will  be  well," 

"  January  1,  1845 I  can  scarcely  realize  that 

the  year  has  come  to  an  end,  so  little  have  I  marked 
the  progress  of  time  during  its  passage ;  and  yet  it 
has  witnessed  a  great  change  outwardly.  But  how 
little  does  mere  outward  circumstance  affect  the  life 
within,  —  how  do  we  carry  ourselves  with  us  every- 
where I  Does  not  this  fact  of  experience  help  us  to 
anticipate  something  of  future  retribution  ?  The 
past  year  has  been  to  me  one  of  such  constant,  tre- 
mendous struggle,  that  jn  looking  back  upon  it  I 
seem  to  see  nothing  but  the  heaving  of  the  waves 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  375 

npon  which  my  spirit  had  been  tost.  And  yet  I 
cannot  lose  sight  of  the  many  bright  spots,  the 
many  and  great  blessings  with  which  my  life  has 
been  cheered.  How  should  we  praise  and  thank 
God  that  our  circle  has  not  again  been  broken,  —  that 
we  are  blessed  with  such  kind  friends,  and  the  means 
of  improvement  and  usefulness !  As  I  look  forward 
into  the  uncertain  future,  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I 
longed  to  know  how  it  will  be  with  us  at  this  hour 
next  year ;  but  a  glance  at  the  possible  picture  makes 
me  ready  to  exclaim,  '  O  blindness  to  the  future, 
kindly  given!'  I  feel  as  if  some  great  change  may 
come,  but  I  can  leave  the  whole  to  Him  who  will 
direct  it  right 

"  How  fully  do  I  respond  to  the  feeling  you  ex- 
press of  desire  to  see  dear  father  once  more.  Some- 
times, —  I  know  not  how,  —  for  an  instant  an  oblivion 
of  the  past  comes  over  me,  and  the  feeling  of  his 
temporary  absence  returns  as  of  old  when  he  had 
gone  a  journey,  as  if  I  could  not  wait,  but  must  see 
him  soon.  Why  is  not  our  faith  in  the  unseen  suf- 
ficient to  satisfy  these  longings?  Why  do  we  not 
realize  more  fully  the  presence  of  the  spiritual  ?  Let 
us  remember  his  almost  dying  words :  '  Body  and 
spirit  may  be  separated;  spirit  and  spirit,  never.^" 

"  June  26,  1845 No  woman  can  be  a  true 

woman,  whatever  may  be  her  intellectual  acquire- 
ments or  capacity,  without  that  womanly  knowledge 
which  will  fit  her  for  domestic  life,  and  enable  her  to 
fill  '  home,'  that  appointed  sphere  of  most  women's 
duties  at  some  time  or  other,  with  all  the  comforta 
which  alone  can  make  it  hajipy.    I  do  not  mean  merely 


376  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

the  knowledge  of  the  daily  routine  of  outside  domes- 
tic employments ;  but  the  cultivation  of  the  domestic 
affections,  the  habits  of  concession  and  self-sacrifice, 
of  delicate  attention  to  the  little  things  which  go  so 
far  to  make  up  the  sum  of  domestic  happiness,  and  the 
mechanical  facility  with  respect  to  a  thousand  minor 
matters,  —  all  of  which  nothing  but  practice  in  the 
atmosphere  which  calls  them  into  exercise  can  pos- 
sibly teach.  1  will  not  deny  that  I  think  a  great 
deal,  too,  of  education  in  '  common  domestic  employ- 
ments,' as  a  means  of  happiness  and  usefulness.  I 
hold  that  nothing  can  compensate  for  a  wilful  neg- 
lect of  what  may  be  made  the  means  of  so  much 
comfort  to  others,  as  order,  cleanliness,  and  a  facility 
in  administering  to  the  human  wants  of  our  friends, 
which  is  peculiarly  woman's  province.  Now,  for  this 
part  of  education,  home  ought  to  be  the  best  place. 
Of  course  it  is  impossible,  while  attending  school 
constantly,  to  find  time  for  these  other  matters,  and 
all  theoretical  learning  upon  such  subjects  can  be  of 
little  use  without  practice." 

Mrs.  Ware  had  found  another,  new  home,  —  a 
pleasant  cottage  built  for  her  use  by  a  friend  after 
si  J  went  to  Milton,  and  entered  by  her  and  her  chil- 
dren toward  the  end  of  the  year,  —  her  last  removal. 
And  highly  favored  did  she  feel,  both  in  the  society 
around  her  and  the  local  situation.  No  heart  could 
be  more  alive  to  the  beauties  of  that  glorious  "  Mil- 
ton Hill "  than  was  hers.  Its  rich  landscape,  its  gor- 
geous sunsets,  and  ever-varying  iuies,  she  enjoyed  in- 
tensely, for  their  natural  beauty,  and  not  less,  if  not 
more,  for  their  moral  induence.     'J'lie  thought  of  her 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  377 

er.thusiasm  comes  over  us  even  now  with  subdu- 
ing power,  as  we  stand  again  at  her  side  on  those 
beautiful  heights,  to  which  she  longed  to  lead  all  her 
Iriends,  and  see  the  emotion,  if  we  hear  not  the  utter- 
ance, of  her  glowing,  admiring  spirit.  We  catch  again 
the  earnest  words  with  which  she  urged  a  visit  there, 
even  in  the  freshness  of  her  widowed  grief.  "  O  this 
glorious  view!  I  do  hope  the  weather  w^ill  be  good, 
that  you  may  see  it  in  all  its  glory.  I  had  no  con- 
ception of  the  moral  influence  of  the  sublime  and 
beautiful  before.  I  really  think  one  must  be  very 
wicked  to  be  troubled  about  little  things,  within  sight 
of  such  a  display  of  the  Divine  love;  even  children 
feel  it." 

The  time  had  come  when  she  might  be  pardoned, 
had  she  been  "  troubled,"  not  indeed  by  "  little 
things,"  but  by  some  of  serious  import.  A  hidden, 
insidious  disease,  which  seldom  leaves  its  nature  long 
doubtful,  had  begun  its  work,  and  the  quickenod 
spirit  caught  the  first  whisper  of  moniJon.  Even 
two  years  before,  she  had  a  sort  oi  presentiment,  if 
not  a  distinct  warning,  of  her  fate,  and  in  a  pleas- 
ant way  signified  it  to  her  husband,  who  answered 
as  pleasantly,  and  probably  thought  no  more  of  it. 
How  much  she  thought  of  it  we  cannot  know.  But 
as  early  as  the  summer  of  1845  she  prepared  her 
mind  for  a  painful  operation ;  and,  when  relieved  of 
the  immediate  necessity,  wrote  thus  to  a  friend : 
"  You  may  imagine  the  depth  of  my  gratitude ;  for 
I  could  not  doubt  that  an  operation,  even  if  success- 
ful, would  disable  me  for  a  long  time ;  and  I  could 
not  look  upon  the  fact  of  being  taken  off  from  my 
32* 


378  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

duties,  without  much  anxiety  as  to  how  my  place 
was  to  be  supjDlied.  Still  I  have  a  strong  conviction 
that  ultimately  this  is  to  end  my  days.  But  I  am 
not  troubled  at  the  thought,  otherwise  than  that  it  is 
a  mode  of  decay  distressing  to  others.  But  God's 
will  be  done  I" 

Mary  Ware  was  not  only  to  suffer,  but  to  do 
God's  will,  to  the  end.  And  for  four  years  longer 
we  may  follow  her,  and  see  her  so  busy  and  so 
cheerful,  that  we  might  think  her  unaware  of  danger, 
—  except  that  we  cannot  fail  to  perceive  in  her  let- 
ters how  clear  was  her  consciousness  of  all  that  was 
impending.  But  very  few  knew  it.  The  work  of 
life  went  on  as  usual.  Her  small  school  in  the  house 
occupied  much  of  her  time,  and  interested  rather 
than  satisfied  her.  She  does  not  appear  to  have 
ever  felt  that  she  accomplished  much  in  the  way  of 
teaching.  She  entered  upon  the  task  distrustingly. 
"  I  begin  my  little  school  to-morrow,  and  I  doubt  if 
any  girl  of  sixteen,  making  her  first  essay  at  school- 
keeping,  ever  felt  more  dread  of  the  thing.  I  am 
ashamed  and  almost  amused  at  my  own  cowardice. 
The  difficulty  is,  I  have  a  great  idea  about  a  small 
thing,  and  cannot  feel  fully  that  it  is  '  little  by  little 
the  bird  builds  his  nest.'"  There  may  have  been 
another  difficulty,  —  that  children  so  young  exercised 
only  her  patience,  and  could  not  call  into  action  the 
higher  powers,  nor  make  her  forget  herself  as  she  al- 
ways wished  to  do.  But  there  was  another  and  ab- 
sorbing work  of  mental  and  moral  training  in  which 
she  was  constantly  engaged,  —  that  of  her  older 
children,  for   whom,  by  communion  or  correspond- 


IIFE    IN    MILTON.  1^79 

ence,  she  was  striving  to  do  all  that  was  possible  in 
the  time  that  remained  to  her. 

About  this  time  Mrs.  Ware  received  from  a  friend, 
who  knew  her  whole  condition,  the  offer  of  a 
"  home  "  for  either  of  her  children  that  she  would  be 
willing  to  spare,  and  for  any  period.  She  felt  deeply 
the  kindness  of  the  offer,  as  will  be  seen  in  her  reply 
to  it,  —  where  we  also  see  her  views  of  the  wisdom 
of  separating  children,  and  giving  them  unequal 
advantages. 

''Milton,  December  18,  1844. 
"  My  dear  Friend  :  — 

"  As  I  read  over  again  your  precious  letter,  I  wonder  if 
there  is  any  pardon  for  one  who  could  have  delayed  so 
long  to  answer  it.  There  could  not  be,  were  it  possible 
that  such  delay  proceeded  from  indifference,  or  want  of  just 
appreciation  of  the  feelings  which  dictated  the  letter.  To 
neither  of  these  charges  can  I  plead  guilty ;  and  can  only 
say  in  my  excuse,  that  I  have  not  had,  since  it  was  found 
safely  rolled  up  in  a  bale  of  carpeting,  the  command  of  one 
hour  of  daylight,  and  that  my  eyes  have  been  so  trouble- 
some that  I  could  not  use  them  at  the  only  time  when  my 
mind  was  free  to  write.  Thus  have  I  been  compelled  to 
put  it  off;  until  now,  on  the  eve  of  leaving  home,  I  dare  not 
put  it  off  any  longer,  and  am  compelled  to  take  the  hour  of 
midnight  to  tell  you,  as  I  may  be  able,  almost  without  eyes, 
how  deeply  grateful  I  am  for  it.  You  have  indeed  shown 
yourself  the  true  friend  by  your  benevolent  proposition ; 
what  more  could  a  friend  do  for  another .''  But  delightful 
as  is  the  thought  that  any  of  my  children  could  have  such 
a  home  in  the  heart  of  one  I  so  truly  love,  I  dare  not  lift  a 
finger,  or  say  a  word,  which  would  decide  such  a  question. 
I  feel  my  own  short-sightedness  so  much,  I  believe  so  fully 


380  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

in  the  circumstantial  leading  of  Providence,  that  I  could  not 
venture  to  anticipate  the  future  expediency  of  any  arrange- 
ment, the  advantages  of  winch  must  depend  upon  a  fitness 
of  things  when  the  time  comes,  of  which  we  now  cannot  know 
any  thing.  How  little  we  can  tell  what  a  child  may  be  at 
any  future  period,  —  what  its  tastes,  or  its  adaptedness  to 
any  particular  position  in  life,  —  and  how  great  may  be  the 
embarrassment  which  might  arise  from  p.ny  arrangement 
made  in  anticipation  of  results  which  are  never  to  be 
reached  ! 

"I  have  always  had  a  strong  objection  to  giving  one 
member  of  a  family  any  great  external  advantages  over  the 
rest.  I  had  rather  all  should  stand  upon  the  same  level,  as 
a  better  security  for  the  cultivation  of  that  family  affec- 
tion and  sympathy  which  1  believe  to  be  a  valuajle  preserv- 
ative of  virtue.  I  should  much  prefer  that  all  my  children 
should  live  together,  if  it  were  possible  to  find  any  one  to 
act  as  a  judicious  head  to  such  a  community,  than  risk  the 
growth  of  separate  interests  and  a  feeling  of  superiority 
from  any  outward  cause.  This,  you  will  say,  is  impracti- 
cable, as,  in  the  common  course  of  events,  one  is  likely  to 
gain  for  himself  a  better  position  than  another;  but  when  a 
strong  family  affection  is  established  by  early  dependence, 
1  have  no  fear  for  after  influences,  —  I  am  willing  to  risk 
them.  Yet  this  is  only  an  idea,  and  I  have  no  hope  of  its 
accomplishment ;  both  the  means  and  the  person  would  be 
wanting,  were  I  taken  from  them  now,  and  1  should  leave 
them  to  their  fate  with  the  delightful  confidence  tiiat  there 
are  many  instruments  in  God's  hands  ready  to  do  for  them 
what  may  be  best.  Bless  you,  for  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  it  is  in  your  Iieart  to  be  one  of  them.  I  have 
much  anxiety  about  my  cliiidren,  not  from  any  peculiar 
difficulty  in  their  original  characters,  but  from  my  deep 
sense    of   incapacity   to   guide    any    child    in    its   progress 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  381 

through    life I  want    Faith,  I  want    Hope,  —  O,   I 

want  a  great  deal  which  I  ouglit  to  have  gained,  hy  this 
time,  to  make  life  bearable.  And  yet,  when  I  think  of  tlie 
possibility  of  being  soon  taken,  I  can  hardly  say,  '  I  am 
ready.'     Pray  for  me  that  it  may  be  otherwise  when  the 

time  comes. 

"  Ever  yours,  most  truly. 

"  Mary  L.  Ware." 

As  the  months  advanced,  Mrs.  Ware  was  more 
and  more  occupied  and  active,  evidently  feeling  that 
her  time  was  short.  And  yet  we  see  none  of  that 
anxiety  about  the  future  which  such  a  conviction  is 
apt  to  create,  in  reference  either  to  the  present  world 
or  another.  As  regarded  another  world,  and  her  ap- 
proach to  it,  we  doubt  if  she  ever  felt  the  slightest 
dread  or  unwillingness  to  go.  Not  from  any  sense 
of  fitness  or  self-sufficiency,  but  with  the  deepest 
humility  there  mingled  the  firmest  trust;  and  a 
trust  that  refused  to  separate  the  exercise  of  justice 
from  mercy,  in  God.  She  could  trust  the  one  as 
much  as  the  other,  and  she  could  not  distrust  either; 
but,  assured  that  a  perfectly  righteous  and  omnis- 
cient Being  would  do  exactly  that  which  was  need- 
ful for  her  purification  and  perfection,  she  rested 
there,  —  and  left  all  else.  We  say  this  of  the  pecu- 
iarity  of  her  faith,  if  it  be  peculiar,  from  personal 
knowledge  of  her  mind  on  this  point,  and  from  her 
own  explicit  declarations  at  a  later  day.  And  we 
refer  to  them  at  this  time,  to  say  that  the  same  con- 
victions sustained  and  tranquillized  her  in  regard  to 
the  future  of  this  life  for  those  whom  she  was  to 
leave  behind.     From  the  earliest  moment  of  the  ex- 


382  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

pectation  or  apprehension  of  death,  a  mother's  mind 
must  turn  strongly  and  fix  intently  on  her  children. 
And  to  most  mothers  this  is  the  great  struggle. 
Who  can  wonder?  Who  will  reprove,  even  if  the 
struggle  be  bitter,  and  the  vision  dim  ?  He  will  not, 
who  has  given  a  parent's  affections,  and  likened  to 
them  his  own.  Many  a  mother,  who  could  leave 
the  world  without  a  pang  for  herself,  will  suffer  and 
fear  for  her  children.  It  is  only  the  highest  faith 
that  prevents  all  this  suffering  and  fear.  Such,  we 
think,  was  Mary  Ware's.  Not  in  commendation  do 
we  say  it,  —  we  know  not  that  it  deserves  that,  — 
but  as  the  simple  fact,  that  while  she  was  always 
doubtful  of  her  power  to  guard  and  train  her  chil- 
dren in  the  best  way,  she  never  feared  to  leave  them 
with  God,  in  reference  either  to  things  temporal  or 
spiritual.  Even  when  she  could  see  no  sufficient 
provision  for  their  temporal  comfort,  she  seemed  un- 
able to  believe  that  she  was  essential  to  that  comfort, 
or  that  her  life  would  be  better  for  them  than  her 
death.  She  kneio  that  that  would  be  best  which 
God  appointed.  Does  not  this  belong  to  the  highest 
faith  ?  No  one  could  induce  her  to  make  any  re- 
quest, or  express  even  a  wish,  as  to  future  arrange- 
ments, the  outward  condition  or  fortune  of  any  child. 
Many  wishes,  many  prayers,  did  she  offer  for  the  in- 
ward condition  and  the  spiritual  preparation  for  both 
worlds,  —  but  only  the  spiritual.  "I  could  write  a 
sheet,"  she  says  to  a  mother  who  was  herself  anxious, 
—  "I  could  write  a  sheet  upon  the  text  your  letter 
gives  me,  with  regard  to  the  preparation  of  our  chil- 
dren for  life.     But  I  can  only  say.  Why  should  we 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  383 

feel  anxious  for  them  when  we  are  gone  ?  Do  we 
not  see  that  the  finest  characters  are  those  which  are 
formed  by  the  necessity  of  acting  for  themselves  ?  " 
And  again :  "  I  have  felt  so  grateful  for  having  had 
health  and  strength  to  do  for  Henry  what  I  was  sure 
no  one  else  could  do,  that  I  had  nothing  more  to 
ask,  and  could  submit  to  any  thing.  I  hope  I  shall 
not  find  my  faith  fail,  come  what  will.  I  do  not  feel 
that  I  am  as  essential  to  my  children.  I  do  not  feel 
that  I  am  competent  to  train  them." 

If  we  have  given  of  late  none  of  Mrs.  Ware's 
"  annuals,"  it  has  only  been  from  the  abundance  of 
other  material.  They  were  continued  without  a 
single  failure  to  the  end  of  life.  From  two  of  them 
at  this  period,  we  take  such  parts  as  will  help  to 
show  the  state  and  progress  of  her  mind. 

"Milton,  December  31,  1845. 

"  My  dear  N : 

"  Twenty  years  ago  at  this  hour,  I  was  writing  my 
annual  upon  a  pair  of  bellows,  crouching  over  a  small  coal 
fire,  in  poor  old  Aunty's  chamber  at  Osmotherly.  What 
changes,  what  a  variety  of  weal  and  woe,  does  a  glance  at 
the  intervening  space  present  to  one's  mind !  It  is  all  too 
familiar  to  you  to  make  a  recapitulation  necessary,  and  you 
can  understand,  without  any  explanation,  the  wide  difference 
between  the  nature  of  the  loneliness  I  then  felt,  and  that 
which  I  now  experience.  Have  I  not  gained  that  which 
can  never  be  lost,  a  bond  of  union  with  an  immortal  spirit 
which  can  never  be  broken  ?  O  that  I  could  realize  more 
the  perpetuity  of  this  spiritual  union !  then  should  I  suffer 
less  from  this  merely  earthly  isolation.  But  T  have  gained 
a  Uttle  since  last  year,  dear  N ;  either  I  have  become 


384 


LIFE    IN    MILTON, 


more  wonted  by  time  to  my  condition,  or  the  increasing 
care  and  anxiety  about  my  children  have  taken  my  thoughts 
away  from  myself;  be  it  what  it  may,  1  am  more  able  to 
turn  my  mind  from  that  one  idea  of  change,  and  have  ac- 
quired a  more  tranquil  state  of  mind,  under  the  conscious- 
ness of  it.  So  far,  so  good  ;  but  God  knows  there  is  still 
enough  of  sin  in  me,  to  keep  me  from  that  state  of  quiet 
trust  which,  as  a  believer  in  Providence,  I  ought  to  have. 
I  cannot  get  away  from  the  terrible  sense  of  insufficiency 
for  the  great  work  which  lies  before  me  in  the  education  of 
my  children,  and  I  cannot  learn  to  rely,  as  I  should,  upon 
the  All-sufficient,  for  the  supply  of  that  deficiency.  It  is  a 
living,  acting  Faith  that  I  want ;  how  shall  I  get  it .? 

"  It  is  long  since  I  have  written  to  you,  but  I  have  little 
of  variety  to  detail.  I  spent  a  fortnight  in  November,  and 
another  in  December,  in  Boston,  helping  Dr.  John  in  ihe 
completion  of  his  work,  and  since  my  return,  three  weeks 
ago,  I  have  been  very  fully  employed  as  nurse  and  maid 

of  all  work  ;    for  I  found  C ,  W ,  H ,  and  my 

Margaret,  all  sick.     E too  has  not  been  well.     Help  is 

not  to  be  got  here  extempore,  and,  with  the  exception  of  two 
nights  from  a  nurse,  I  had  no  aid,  until  within  a  few  days  I 
have  had  a  little  girl  of  thirteen.  You  know  something  about 
such  concatenations,  and  need  not  be  told,  that  under  such 
circumstances  one  finds  no  time  for  any  thing  but  supplying 
the  bodily  wants  of  those  about  us.  Add  to  this,  that  I  have 
been  more  than  half  sick  myself  all  the  time  with  one  of 
my  tedious  ccughs,  keeping  me  awake  at  night  and  tiring 
me  terribly  in  the  day. 

"  Only  think  of  Emma's  trip  to  England,  —  and,  good 
soul,  that  she  should  go  and  see  '  Cousin  Jane  '  for  me,  and 
George  Lovell,  too !     Does  she  not  always  do  more  than 

any  one  else  ? 

"  Your  faithful 

"  M.  L.  W.»» 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  385 

"  Milton,  December  31,  1846. 

"Thirty  years,  is  it  not,  dear  N ,  since  I  began  to 

make  you  my  mother-confessor  upon  this  anniversary  ?  A 
long  life,  as  some  people  would  have  used  it ;  a  long  life  it 
seems  to  me,  as  1  look  back  to  that  first  hour  of  conscious- 
ness that  there  was  one  being  in  the  world  to  whom  I  could 
be  as  egotistical  as  I  pleased,  with  impunity.  A  long  life 
it  has  truly  been  to  me,  not  so  much  in  its  usefulness  or 
improvement,  as  in  the  variety  of  its  experiences,  internal  as 
well  as  external.  In  fact,  it  seems  like  many  lives ;  and  as 
I  survey  different  portions  of  it  in  retrospect,  I  can  scarcely 
believe  in  my  own  identity  with  the  being  who  appears 
upon  the  stage  in  each.  How  has  it  been  with  you .?  I  am 
anxious  to  know  whether  others  are  as  sensible  as  I  am  of 
a  change  of  character  from  the  influence  of  circumstances. 
We  are  wont  to  say,  and  I  think  I  have  seen  strong  proof 
of  the  truth  of  the  assertion,  —  that  '  the  child  i-s  father  to 
the  man.'  In  truth,  he  is  the  future  man,  in  all  the  leading 
traits  of  his  character,  as  well  at  five  as  at  fifty  years  of 
age ;  and  yet  I  do  feel  as  if  I  were  not  the  same  being  that 
I  was  three  years  ago.  Whether  it  is  that  I  am  growing 
old  and  losing  my  faculties,  or  whether  the  responsibilities 
of  life  have  paralyzed  my  mind,  or  that  the  loss  of  that 
refreshment  to  the  spirit  which  comes  from  the  reciproca- 
tion of  an  affection  for  which  there  is  no  substitute,  has  ex- 
hausted my  strength  by  depriving  me  of  my  spirit's  resting- 
place,  I  know  not.  But  certain  it  is,  that  from  being  a 
person  of  some  decision  of  character,  some  energy,  some 
judgment,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  reduced  to  a  mere  child,  ready 
to  lean  upon  any  body's  judgment  but  my  own,  heart-sick 
and  home-sick  at  the  sense  of  incapacity  to  meet  my  duties. 
Is  this  want  of  actual  power,  or  want  of  faith  to  use  the 
power  that  is  left  ?  I  don't  know.  All  I  know  certainly  is 
this :  that  I  find  myself  utterly  inadequate  to  the  duties 
33 


3tJb  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

which  belong  to  me,  and  am  in  consequence  in  a  perpotual 
6tate  of  anxiety,  which  incapacitates  me  from  domg  or  en- 
joying. This  is  a  new  strain,  you  will  say  ;  for  me,  truly 
it  is  a  new  state  of  mind,  and  whether  remediable  or  not,  I 
cannot  tell ;  can  you  tell  me  ? 

" How  strangely  various  seem  to  be  the  means 

appointed  to  bring  about  the  same  end  in  life  ;  and  it  is 
not  easy  to  see  how  our  various  lots  can  all  be  brought  to 
bear  the  same  fruit  of  holiness  and  happiness.  The 
greatest  evil  to  me  in  life  is  the  perpetual  hurry,  hurry,  to 
get  through  the  business  of  the  day  without  leaving  any 
necessary  duty  undone,  —  without  a  moment  for  quiet 
thought  or  intellectual  improvement,  —  while  here  is  my 
neighbor,  it  may  be,  at  a  loss  how  to  fill  up  the  vacant  hours, 
thankful  to  resort  to  sleep  to  dispose  of  some  of  them. 
Does  it  seem  as  if  we  were  both  destined  to  the  same  end  ? 
The  more  I  look  upon  life,  the  more  I  feel  that  the  outside 
has  less  to  do  with  improvement  or  happiness.  And  dis- 
satisfied as  I  sometimes  feel  with  my  own  position,  I  know 
not  how  I  should  improve  it,  on  the  whole.  When  I  look 
calmly  at  my  deficiencies,  I  see  that  they  are  not  so  much 
the  effect  of  any  outside  cause,  as  the  weakness  of  my  own 
character.  And  if  at  times  this  brings  a  feeling  akin  to 
despair,  it  makes  me  less  restless  than  I  should  otherwise  be. 

"  Dear  N ,  I  have  a  strong  feeling  that  this  is  to  be  a 

year  of  change  to  me  ;  not  from  any  present  indications, 

but  that  it  seems  presumptuous  to  expect  that  the  trial  which 

I  believe  hangs  over  me  should  be  long  averted.     Pray  for 

me,  that  I  may  be  prepared  for  it.     I  fear  I  shall  never  be 

any  better.     And  so  I  begin  the  year,  not  wishing  to  look  to 

its  end,  but   with    more   indifference  as  to  what  that  end 

may  be  to  me,  than  I  ever  felt  before.     I  fear  this  is  not  a 

right  feeling 

"  Yours  always. 

"  M.  L,  W.'» 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  3!J*7 

From  the  many  letters  of  sympathy  which  Mrs. 
Ware  wrote,  we  have  drawn  little.  They  were  sure 
to  be  many,  from  her  position,  her  large  circle  of  in- 
timate friends,  the  unreserved  confidence  reposed  in 
her,  and  her  warm  affections.  How  warm  and  tender 
those  affections  were,  how  prompt  to  go  out  to  those 
who  suffered,  and  how  sure  to  do  something  to  soothe 
and  cheer,  many  of  us  could  tell.  Or  rather,  it  is  not 
to  be  told.  But  the  want  of  it  is  felt.  There  are 
those  of  that  family  and  acquaintance,  who  will 
never  weep,  without  the  remembrance  of  her  ready 
and  wise  sympathy.  The  power  of  sympathy  is  not 
given  to  all.  The  feeling  may  be  in  all,  but  not  the 
faculty  of  so  expressing  and  adapting  it  as  to  make  it 
truly  sympathy.  It  requires  one  to  be  "  acquainted 
with  grief."  It  requires  a  quick  discernment  and 
deep  insight  of  character.  That  which  is  sympathy 
to  one  may  not  reach,  or  may  offend,  another.  Mrs. 
Ware  understood  this  so  well,  that  she  always  ac- 
cepted, for  herself,  most  gratefully,  all  attempts  at 
condolence,  and  at  the  same  time  adapted  her  own 
to  the  character  and  case  of  the  sufferer.  "  In  my 
intercourse  with  her,"  says  one,  "  I  felt  the  difference 
between  feeling /or  and  feeling  with  another."  There 
is  nothing  belittling  or  weakening  in  such  sympathy. 
It  appeals  to  the  highest,  and  not,  as  is  often  done, 
to  lower  motives  and  affections  in  the  mourner.  It 
does  not  condole  merely,  but  rejoices  with  him. 
To  a  friend  in  sorrow  she  writes :  "  My  confidence 
makes  me  rather  rejoice  for  you,  than  grieve,  that 
you  should  be  called  to  such  suffering.  There  is  so 
much  of  sublimity  in  these  great  trials  of  faith,  that 


388  LIFE    IN    iMILTON. 

one  feels  raised  by  them  to  a  nearer  approach  to  the 
Infinite,  to  a  clearer  vision  of  the  realities  of  the 
spiritual  world,  a  nearness,  almost  oneness,  with  the 
Father  of  spirits.  Who  would  desire  to  avert  any 
thing  that  will  do  this  for  us  ?  "  There  is,  too,  a  self- 
respect  and  decision,  with  which  even  her  humility 
clothes  itself.  "  Your  case  is  much  upon  my  mind, 
and  I  cannot  help  wishing  there  were  some  mental 
daguerreotype,  or  magnetic  communication,  by  which 
I  could  transfer  to  your  mind,  without  the  interven- 
tion of  words,  all  that  is  passing  in  mine  concern- 
ing you.  '  Vain  mortal  I '  whispers  Humility,  '  what 
could  you  show  her  worth  her  seeing  ? '  I  was  not 
thinking  of  the  worth,  but  of  the  sympathy  and  love. 
1  know  that  is  worth  something  even  from  poor  me. 
You  say,  '  Why  do  you  not  talk  ?  '  I  have  no  habit 
of  talking  about  the  internal,  and  I  have  so  little 
love  of  discussing  the  external,  that  I  have  no  free 
use  of  language  in  any  way ;  and  it  always  seems 
to  me,  when  I  make  the  attempt  to  utter  what  my 
mind  is  full  of,  as  if  my  thoughts  all  came  wrong 
end  foremost ;  and  the  idea  of  taking  up  a  person's 
time  to  listen  to  me  seems  so  foolish,  that  it  embar- 
rasses me  by  making  me  feel  in  a  hurry  to  get  through 
for  their  sakesJ^ 

But  if  she  could  not  or  did  not  talk  much,  in  the 
way  of  solace,  she  wrote  freely ;  and  her  letters, 
though  not  original  or  remarkable,  are  drawn  from 
the  depths  of  experience  and  faith.  We  offer  none 
entire,  but  only  the  parts  that  indicate  her  manner 
of  urging  upon  others  the  great  truths  and  principles 
on  which  she  herself  relied.     The  extracts  that  follow 


LIFE    IN    MILTuN.  389 

are  not  all  of  one  character,  but  such  as  were  called 
forth  by  different  experiences  near  the  same  time,  — 
all  showing  the  serious  cast  of  her  own  thoughts, 
and  her  deepening  interest  in  others'  moral  condition. 
The  first  was  written  to  her  son  in  the  ministry. 

"  February  9,  1846.  Dear  John :  Oh  I  you  are 
but  just  beginning  to  know  what  life  truly  is  in  its 
solemn  discipline.  The  great  book  of  religious  ex- 
perience is  now  but  opening  to  you  ;  and,  believe  me, 
you  will  find  in  it  treasures  of  happiness  of  which 
the  heart  of  man  cannot  conceive  without  such  ex- 
perience. You  say  you  feel  something  of  '  fear ' 
coming  over  you.  I  will  not  say,  put  away  all  ap- 
prehension ;  uncertainty  does  hang  over  you,  but  let 
it  not  produce  fear.  I  would  advocate  a  courageous 
contemplation  of  possibilities,  for  in  this  way,  1 
believe,  the  benefits  of  all  trial  may  be  made  greater. 
But  let  it  be  with  a  quiet  trust  and  hopefulness,  such 
as  we  as  Christians  have  a  right  to  feel ;  let  it  be 
with  a  steady  faith,  that  whatever  God  permits  has 
a  beneficent  end  and  object,  kindly  to  aid  us  in  the 
great  work  for  which  we  were  placed  in  this  world 
of  trial,  —  the  preparation  of  our  souls  for  that  spir- 
itual life  which  may  be  lived  even  while  we  are  still 
in  this  world.  Does  not  our  Father  love  us  with  a 
perfect  love  ?  Does  he  not  know  better  than  we  can 
what  is  best  for  us?  Has  he  not  power  to  fulfil  all 
his  designs  of  good  for  us,  —  and  shall  we  not,  if  with 
childlike  faith  in  that  love  and  power  we  surrender 
our  will  to  his,  find  a  peace  which  cannot  be  moved  ? 
I  was  once  most  forcibly  checked  in  some  fruit- 
less attempt  to  obtain  peace  under  great  difficulties, 
33* 


390  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

upon  false  principles,  by  happening  upon  these  verses 

of  Watts  (I  believe)  :  — 

'  Is  resignation's  lesson  hard  1 

On  trial  we  shall  find 
It  makes  us  give  up  nothing  more 

Than  anguish  of  the  mind. 
Believe,  and  all  the  ills  of  life 

That  moment  we  resign,'  &c. 

And  I  never  find  myself  trying  to  argue  myself  into 
acquiescence  to  any  dispensation  by  reasons  other 
than  those  implied  in  these  lines,  that  they  do  not 
rise  to  my  memory  as  a  rebuke.  But  still  the  strug- 
gle, —  O,  that  struggle  is  great,  and  we  must  not  be 
discouraged  that  we  find  it  so ;  that  is  part  of  the 
discipline.  Strength  comes  by  effort ;  and  only  think 
what  precious  teaching  this  is  for  i/our  work." 

All  who  have  read  the  beautiful  Memoir  of  Robert 
Swain  will  feel  the  greater  interest  in  the  following, 
written  from  his  favorite  island-home,  to  a  son  in 
England,  about  the  age  of  Robert,  when  he  died. 

"  Naushon,  September  13,  1846.  I  am  glad,  dear 
William,  to  write  to  you  from  this  place,  not  only 
because  I  am  happy  in  being  here,  but  because  it 
must  remind  you  of  him  with  whose  memory  this 
place  is  so  strongly  associated,  that  one  cannot  hear 
its  name  without  having  his  beautiful  character 
brought  up  before  the  mind.  I  have  thought  much 
of  you  since  I  have  been  here,  in  tracing  Robert's 
life  by  the  memorials  which  are  everywhere  around 
me,  in  hearing  his  parents  talk  of  the  formation  ol 
his  character,  in  reading  the  record  of  liis  death,  and 
contemplating  at  his  grave  his  present  life.  O,  I 
have  felt,  dear  William,  that  to  have  such  a  child 


LIFE    IN    MILTON. 


391 


was  the  highest  happiness  this  world  could  give ;  and 
however  great  must  have  been  the  pain  of  parting,  and 
dreary  the  void  which  his  absence  made  in  the  earthly 
pilgrimage  of  his  parents,  it  was  all  more  than  com- 
pensated, by  the  satisfaction  of  having  begun  here 
such  a  relation  to  so  pure  a  spirit,  which  can  never 
cease  while  the  soul  lives.  A-nd  how  earnestly  I  have 
prayed,  that  my  child,  too,  might  so  understand  the 
true  object  of  existence,  as  to  make  his  spiritual  prog- 
ress the  first  aim  under  all  circumstances !  "We  see 
in  Robert's  case  how  beautifully  he  was  training 
himself  for  heaven,  while  he  lived  the  simple  life  of 
an  active  boy,  following  all  the  common  pursuits 
which  belonged  to  his  age,  but  doing  all  with  a  con- 
scientious reference  to  the  law  of  right.  With  the 
most  devoted  love  towards  his  parents  and  friends, 
he  loved  his  God  above  all,  and  sought  first  of  all  to 
obey  Him.  His  grave  is  in  one  of  the  sweetest  spots 
on  the  island,  in  a  little  opening  surrounded  by  trees 
which  he  had  named  his  '  mother's  parlor ' ;  and 
upon  a  seat  which  he  had  made  there  for  her  I  have 
spent  some  holy  moments,  with  which  the  thought 
of  you  was  tenderly  mingled.  Dear  son,  may  I 
have  the  same  satisfaction  in  your  life,  which  these 
parents  have  in  that  of  their  son !  and  should  God 
in  his  providence  call  you  also  thus  early  to  himself, 
may  I  have  reason  to  believe,  as  they  do,  that  for 

you  the  work  of  life  was  accomplished ! 

"  I  trust  you  will  come  home  ready  to  beg-in  the 
work  of  life  in  earnest.  When  you  look  forward 
and  consider  that  you  must  depend  on  your  own 
efforts  for  subsistence,  that  you  have  a  gift  of  mind 


392 


LIFE    IN    MILTON. 


for  the  use  of  which  you  are  accountable  to  youi 
Maker,  and  that  the  person  with  one  talent  is  equal- 
ly responsible  with  him  who  has  ten,  you  will  see 
that  nothing  short  of  physical  inability  can  excuse 
you  from  beginning  at  once  the  work  of  self-educa- 
tion. All  that  can  be  done  for  you  is  nothing,  all 
the  advantages  with  which  you  may  be  surrounded 
are  as  nothing,  if  you  do  not  set  yourself  to  a  consci- 
entious improvement  of  all.  I  care  little  what  path 
you  follow  as  to  external  life,  if  you  only  follow  it 
upon  the  basis  of  right  principle,  which  shall  produce 
in  you  a  manly,  disinterested  regard  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  all  the  good  you  may  have  it  in  your 
power  to  perform." 

A  letter  from  England  informed  Mrs.  Ware  of  the 
death  of  an  excellent  kinswoman,  who  may  be  re- 
membered as  "  Cousin  Bessie,"  the  wife  of  George 
Lovell.  And  she  wrote  of  it  to  Emma,  then  in  New 
York,  who  had  been  her  fellow-traveller  in  England, 
and  whose  own  health  was  gently  bat  surely  de- 
clining. 

"  Greenhill  Cottage^  December  18, 1846 Dear 

Bessie's  pure  spirit  passed  away  in  peace,  the  22d 
of  November.  Her  mind  remained  perfectly  clear  to 
the  last  moment,  calm  and  cheerful.  Hers  was  a 
sweet  spirit,  and  I  love  to  remember  the  intimate  iii- 
tercouse  I  had  with  it  in  times  past,  for  there  was 
more  in  her  soul  than  appeared  to  the  casual  ob- 
server. Her  departure  has  added  one  more  attrac- 
tion to  that  spiritual  state  in  wliich  I  hope  to  renew 
the  interchange  of  kind  allection  and  holy  thought. 
How  beautifully  is  it  arranged  for  us,  that,  as  we  ap- 


LIFE    IN    IMILTON.  893 

proach  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  exchange  of  worlds 
ourselves,  our  interest  in  that  to  which  we  are  going 
should  be  so  increased  by  the  removal  of  so  many 
loved  ones  before  us. 

"  It  can  be  no  new  thought  to  you^  that  all  sick- 
ness must  be  of  uncertain  result,  and  you  under- 
stand too  well  the  object  of  all  the  discipline  of  life, 
to  shrink  from  any  form  of  it  which  Providence  may 
appoint.  To  you  and  m.e,  strength  and  power  seem 
so  much  our  birthright,  that  we  hardly  know  how  to 
understand  ourselves  when  they  fail ;  but  it  certain- 
ly is  not  difficult  to  see  why  we  peculiarly  need  the 
gentle  monitions  which  sickness  brings  to  us.  It 
would  seem  as  if  some  of  the  capacities  for  the  en- 
joyment of  the  purely  spiritual  could  not  be  formed 
in  us  without  them ;  we  should  be  too  self-depend- 
ent, too  confident  in  our  own  strength,  to  learn  how 
to  be  the  meek  and  lowly  disciples,  to  whom  are 
promised  the  fruits  of  faith  and  trust.  I  am  sure  that 
the  sense  I  now  have  of  liability  to  the  development 
of  fatal  disease  at  any  time,  is  the  source  of  some  of 
the  most  exalted  moments  of  my  present  existence. 
So  far  from  its  lessening  our  enjoyment  of  all  that 
we  ought  to  enjoy  belonging  to  life,  it  gives  a  keener 
sense  of  it,  inasmuch  as  it  puts  in  their  true  position 
all  the  trifles  which  are  so  apt  to  mar  our  comfort 
under  common  circumstances.  I  cannot  but  believe 
that  you  will  derive  great  relief  from  this  experi- 
ment ;  and  if  it  does  not  reach  all  the  difficulty,  it  cer- 
tainly will  do  this  good,  —  that,  by  removing  some  of 
the  causes  of  irritation  and  consequent  exhaustion, 
it  leaves  you  more  strength  to  contend  with  what 


394  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

may  remain  of  disease,  —  and,  after  all,  that  is  the 
main  thing. 

" I  have  had  a  very  kind  note  from   Miss 

Sedgwick,  inclosing  a  letter  from  Madame  Sismondi 
after  reading  Henry's  Life.  It  was  a  most  grati- 
fying testimony  to  the  influence  of  the  truth  upon  a 
mind  which  had  been  educated  to  undervalue  every 
thing  proceeding  from  our  form  of  faith." 

The  younger  son,  to  whom  Mrs.  Ware  had  writ- 
ten from  Naushon,  had  now  returned  from  England, 
where  he  had  been  for  his  health,  and  was  placed 
at  school  in  Exeter,  in  the  well-known  Phillips  Acad- 
emy. From  his  mother's  letters  to  him  while  there, 
we  should  be  glad  to  borrow  largely,  but  must 
abridge.  The  number  and  fulness  of  these  letters, 
when  we  remember  the  state  of  her  health,  the  care 
of  her  family,  and  all  else  that  she  was  doing,  would 
surprise  us,  if  we  had  not  seen  the  same,  virtually, 
in  every  period  and  position  of  her  life.  The  letters 
themselves  are  written  without  eflbrt  or  ornament, 
and  contain  much  that  would  be  called  "  common- 
place," because  they  aim  only  at  those  simplest 
truths  and  counsels  which  lie  at  the  root  of  moral 
character. 

During  the  time  of  writing  the  extracts  that  fol- 
low, Mrs.  Ware  went  herself  to  Exeter,  alone  and  at 
the  shortest  notice,  —  finding  that  some  questions  in 
regard  to  the  course  of  study  to  be  pursued  by  her 
son  could  be  best  determined  by  her  actual  presence. 
It  was  one  of  her  last  journeys,  and,  being  in  mid- 
winter, must  have  required  resolution,  if  it  did  not 
cost  suffering. 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  395 

"  January  1,  1847.  The  clock  has  just  struck  one, 
BO  I  may  fairly  date  1847.  And  with  the  recollec- 
tions of  the  old  year  which  has  just  passed  away, 
and  the  anticipations  of  that  upon  which  we  are 
entering,  come  many  thoughts  of  you, —  affecting 
thoughts,  for  I  remember  my  own  experience  at  your 
age,  and  I  feel  that  this  year  must  be  to  you  one  of 
the  most  important  of  your  whole  existence,  in  its 
influence  on  your  character  and  happiness,  both  for 
this  life  and  for  that  long  future  which  can  be  meas- 
ured only  by  one  word,  —  Eternity.  It  must  bring 
to  you  many  trials,  both  of  feeling  and  principle;  it 
must  bring  to  you  many  deep  spiritual  exercises,  and 
anxious  thoughts  with  regard  to  your  religious  prog- 
ress. You  have  come  to  that  period  of  life  at  which 
one  cannot  escape  from  a  deep  sense  of  responsibili- 
ty for  the  formation  of  one's  own  character ;  when, 
with  every  power  and  faculty  in  a  peculiarly  excit- 
able state,  every  nerve  vibrates  to  the  slightest  touch 
of  joy  or  sorrow,  and  one  feels  perpetually  in  danger 
of  being  led  by  feeling  rather  than  by  judgment.  It 
is  a  period  of  intense  enjoyment,  and  for  the  same 
reason  may  be  one  of  intense  suffering ;  and  while  it 
must  depend  much  upon  circumstances  which  shall 
predominate,  I  believe  it  depends  still  more  upon 
our  own  self-discipline,  in  enabling  us  both  to  avoid 
many  occasions  of  suffering,  and  to  meet  with  a 
calm  spirit  those  which  are  unavoidable.  You  are 
in  a  new  position  of  independent  action  ;  and  while, 
with  the  deep  sympathy  which  is  the  result  of  expe- 
rience, I  can  suffer  and  enjoy  with  you,  in  anticipa- 
tion, I  feel  the  satisfaction  of  a  quiet  trust  that  '  all 


396  LIFE    IN    M'I,TON. 

will  issue  well.'  I  believe  that  you  mean  to  govern 
yourself  by  the  highest  principle,  and  in  that  faith  I 
can  leave  you  to  the  guidance  of  your  own  con- 
science ;  hoping  that  you  will  never  forget,  that  prin- 
ciple, to  do  its  perfect  work,  must  be  applied  to 
small  things  as  well  as  great;  that  then  only  is  it 
true  principle  when  it  regulates  even  the  tone  of  the 
voice,  as  well  as  the  most  heroic  action.  Your  moth- 
er's prayers  are  for  you,  at  this  solemn  turning-point 
of  life,  that,  when  this  anniversary  next  arrives,  it 
may  find  you,  whether  in  the  body  or  not,  able  to 
look  back  with  satisfaction  upon  the  past,  conscious 
that  a  true  progress  has  been  made  towards  that 
perfection  of  the  soul  for  which  it  w^as  created 

"  You  will  say,  you  have  much  to  struggle  with 
in  your  own  character,  and  that  nothing  can  satisfy 
you  while  you  have  to  contend  with  self  so  continu- 
ally. But  your  greatest  temptation  is  to  dwell  too 
much  upon  your  internal  trials,  leading  you  almost 
insensibly  to  that  most  insidious  and  deceptive  form 
of  self-love,  a  too  constant  thought  of  self  even  in 
regard  to  one's  faults.  You  will  find  your  intellect- 
ual occupation  a  great  help  in  preventing  this.  Do 
not  think  too  much  about  your  own  deficiencies,  be 
content  to  live  along  in  the  constant  thought  for 
others'  good,  and  you  will  find  that  you  have  done 
more  for  yourself  by  your  disinterested  action,  than 
you  could  have  done  by  all  the  thought  you  would 
have  given  to  the  subject  in  twice  the  time." 

^^  JanKary  24 Cultivate  in  yourself  a  re- 
ligious spirit ;  read  God's  word  to  learn  what  he 
would  have  you  do ;  pray  to  Ilim  for  power  to  do 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  397 

it,  —  and  you  will  succeed.  Here  lies  the  only  sure 
foundation.  Religious  principle  is  the  rock  upon 
which  alone  you  can  build  any  superstructure ;  all 
other  will  be  like  the  sand  on  the  sea-shore,  —  the 
next  tide  of  temptation  will  sweep  it  away.  And 
do  not  think  that  it  will  interfere  with  any  of  the 
pleasures  of  youth,  or  restrain  the  spirit  of  mirth 
which  belongs  to  your  age.  So  far  from  it,  it  will 
promote  all  enjoyment;  for  when  we  engage  in  that 
which  we  have  decided  by  the  standard  of  principle 
to  be  right,  we  go  forth  with  a  free  spirit,  to  enjoy  to 
the  utmost, — without  any  of  that  under-current  of 
misgiving  which  is  a  perpetual  check  upon  us  when 
we  are  engaged  in  a  matter  of  doubtful  expediency. 
Experience  must  have  already  taught  you  this  in 
some  things,  and,  believe  me,  it  is  equally  true  in 
all.  You  will  have  many  temptations  in  your  little 
world,  composed,  as  well  as  the  great  world,  of  va- 
rious characters.  But  if  you  once  establish  it  with 
yourself  to  pursue  only  the  right,  and  to  have  a 
strong  moral  courage  to  say  '  No '  to  any  measure 
of  even  doubtful  character,  you  will  find  that  you 
not  only  gain  peace  of  mind,  but  win  the  respect 
even  of  those  who  may  at  first  laugh  at  you.  Never 
fear  for  the  result,  if  you  only  do  right.^^ 

''■January  26,  1847.  Well,  it  was  an  event  for  me 
to  go  to  Exeter.  All  my  associations  with  the  place 
are  of  the  most  interesting  kind.  All  the  romance 
of  my  youth  was  connected  with  it;  my  first  knowl- 
edge of  your  father  was  during  his  residence  there, 
through  the  medium  of  the  admiration  of  that  bril- 
liant circle  of  young  ladies,  in  whose  society  he 
34 


398  LIFE    IN    xMILTON. 

found  poetical  inspiration.  It  was  the  home  and  the 
death-place  of  the  first  specimen  of  the  highly  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  form  of  humanity  that  I  had 
ever  known  intimately,  in  the  person  of  your  father's 
dear  friend,  John  E.  Abbot;  and  the  very  name  of 
Exeter  was  sacred  to  me,  from  its  connection  with 
the  daily  details  of  his  last  sickness,  which  I  received 

from.  Mrs.  P ,  then  residing  in  her  Aunt  Abbot's 

family.  I  had  been  there,  however,  only  once,  twen- 
ty years  ago  with  your  father,  when  together  we 
visited  John  Abbot's  grave,  and  gave  ourselves  up 
to  the  emotions  connected  with  his  memory.  You 
may  believe  that  it  was  with  no  common  feelings 
that  I  went  alone,  upon  such  an  errand,  to  that  spot. 
The  sense  of  my  sole  responsibility  in  the  care  of 
my  children  presses  upon  me  at  all  times ;  but  it 
bore  with  peculiar  power  at  that  time  and  at  that 
place,  reminded,  as  I  could  not  but  be,  how  little 
qualified  I  was  to  decide  the  question,  in  comparison 
with  a  father's  knowledge  and  experience." 

"  February  2 This  has  been  an  intensely 

interesting  day  to  me.  What  a  thing  is  this  gift  of 
life,  —  this  strange,  first  union  of  the  spiritual  and 
the  material!  How  closely  such  an  event  brings 
one  near  to  the  great  Origin  of  all,  and  in  what  an 
interesting,  affecting  relation !  The  tender  Father, 
watching  over,  protecting,  sustaining,  a  feeble,  mortal 
child  in  the  greatest  work  of  creation,  the  introduc- 
tion of  a  new  heir  of  immortality  to  the  path  which 
is  to  lead  it  to  receive  its  inheritance  I" 

"  March  3 Do  not  for  a  moment  lose  sight 

of  your  dear   father's   example.     He   was   what  he 


LIFE    IN    MILTO.V.  399 

was,  not  by  the  bestowment  of  great  natural  powers, 
but  by  the  religious  industry  with  which  he  used  his 
powers,  the  high  standard  of  moral  and  religious 
character  at  which  he  aimed,  the  disinterested  devo- 
tion with  which  he  labored  for  others'  good.  He 
cultivated  his  conscience,  and  by  its  light  he  cultivat- 
ed his  intellect;  marking  out  for  himself  that  path  in 
life  in  which  he  felt  himself  most  likely  to  be  useful. 
And  this  was  the  secret  of  his  great  success.  He 
was  willing  to  do  any  thing  he  could ;  and  he  regu- 
lated that  'could'  by  the  most  unwearied  industry. 
What  cannot  one  do,  with  such  a  lever?" 

We  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  speak  of 
Mrs.  Ware's  peculiar  interest  in  the  public  minis- 
trations of  religion.  Such  an  interest,  in  a  woman 
even  of  practical  good-sense,  is  a  matter  of  course. 
She  could  not,  in  any  possible  circumstances,  think 
lightly  of  public  worship,  for  others  or  for  herself. 
Nor  was  she  dependent  upon  the  form  and  medium 
of  worship ;  since,  whatever  her  choice  or  taste,  she 
thought  more  of  the  spirit  than  of  the  letter  or  man- 
ner. Either  from  hearing  her  quote  the  couplet,  or 
from  a  knowledge  of  her  feelings,  we  often  think 
of  her  in  connection  with  the  quaint  lines  of  old 
Herbert :  — 

"  The  worst  speak  something  good ;  should  all  want  sense, 
God  takes  the  text,  and  preaches  —  patience." 

Patient  she  was,  even  interested,  in  all  preaching  that 
evidently  came  from  the  heart,  however  homely,  and 
in  all  preachers  who  were  sincerely  engaged  in  their 
Master's  cause.  But  for  the  lukewarm  and  the  self- 
ish, for  those  who  preached  not  Christ,  but  them* 


400  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

selves,  and  offered  stones  rather  than  bread  to  the 
hungry  soul,  she  found  it  difficult  to  maintain  her 
respect,  or  refrain  from  expressing  a  very  different 
sentiment.  Her  indignation  at  some  kinds  of  preach- 
ing, and  the  abuse  of  sacred  time,  was  as  strong  and 
almost  as  terrible  as  that  which  we  sometimes  heard 
from  even  the  gentle  spirit  of  her  husband.     It  was 

to  him  that  she  once  wrote :  "  Mr. gave  us  a 

philosophical  disquisition  on  the  nature  and  proper-, 
ties  of  mind  and  matter,  containing  (I  suppose)  a 
conclusive  argument  against  Materialism,  abound- 
ing in  technical  phrases  and  abstruse  quotations, — 
which,  to  a  certainty,  not  one  in  fifty  of  his  audience 
could  understand.  What  food  for  sinful,  account- 
able, half-asleep  souls!  If  an  inhabitant  of  the  in- 
sane hospital  had  called  such  a  production  a  ser- 
mon, he  might  be  excused  the  misnomer.  But  in  a 
minister  of  Christ  to  an  erring  world,  it  is  nothing 
short  of  profanation."  She  loved  simplicity  of  man- 
ner, as  well  as  matter.  She  loved  a  fervid,  but  quiet 
utterance.  Of  one  of  the  popular  preachers  she  says  : 
"  Such  grand  and  momentous  views  as  he  brings  to- 
gether do  not  seem  to  me  —  it  is  a  matter  of  taste,  I 
suppose  —  to  need  the  factitious  aid  of  such  a  de- 
clamatory style  of  writing  or  studied  mode  of  deliv- 
ery. I  want  to  strip  them  of  all  this,  and  cannot 
help  thinking,  that  in  their  simple,  naked  sublimity 
they  wo±d  be  quite  as  effective,  —  to  many  minds 
more  so.  ^ 

As  life  advanced,  Mrs.  Ware  felt  more  and  more 
the  value  of  religious  connections;  and  both  in 
Framingham  and  Millon  ^iic  found  groat  satisfac- 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  401 

tion.  Such  a  hearer  and  parishioner  gives  more  than 
she  receives.  Would  that  all  knew  how  inestimable 
is  the  blessing  to  a  minister  I  We  cannot  withhold 
the  testimony  of  one  pastor  to  her  character  in  this 
single  relation :  —  "  None  could  be  more  candid, 
more  kind,  more  sympathizing,  or  more  appreciating. 
Her  seat  at  church  scarcely  ever  vacant,  her  interest 
warmly  expressed  by  word  and  deed  in  every  event 
and  place  connected  with  our  spiritual  growth  and 
prosperity ;  reverent,  and  almost  punctiliously  faith- 
ful in  her  attachment  to  the  church,  its  forms  and  its 
order  were  cherished  with  a  true-hearted  veneration 
and  love,  —  while  none  could  have  exceeded  her  in 
the  spirituality  of  her  religious  views,  or  have  risen 

more  entirely  above  a  mere  formalism On 

those  occasions,  too,  of  trial,  which  will  at  times 
arise  in  a  minister's  service,  when  he  may  be  called 
to  speak  or  act  with  boldness,  or  adventure  upon  un- 
tried experiments,  she  was  ever  prompt  and  hearty 
in  expressions  of  encouragement.  Instances  of  this 
nature  occur  to  me,  where  she  would  stop  at  my 
house  on  her  return  from  church,  and  leave  the 
benediction  of  a  kind  word  of  sympathy  and  god- 
speed, uttered  with  all  the  emotion  of  her  sympa- 
thetic nature,  to  assure  me  that  one  heart  at  least 
was  in  unison  with  my  own." 

Of  the  "  church  in  the  house  "  we  dare  not  speak, 
—  except  to  say,  that  she  who  was  for  so  long  a 
time  its  only  head  did  not  believe  that  all  religious 
service  must  wait  for  a  priest,  nor  even  for  a  man. 
Never  will  the  sweetness  of  iJiat  voice,  in  devotion, 
34* 


402  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

Scripture,  or  hymn,  die  away  from  the  heart.  Never 
will  those  cherished  words,  "To  prayer,  to  prayer! 
for  the  morning  breaks,"  —  be  so  moving  and  uplift- 
ing, as  in  that  dwelling,  where  the  thought  of  death, 
just  past  or  just  approaching,  served  but  to  quicken 
the  spirit  of  Devotion. 

At  the  period  now  reached,  1847,  the  letters  of 
Mrs.  Ware  continued  to  be  nearly  as  many  as  for- 
merly, and  quite  as  cheerful.  There  is  a  large  class 
of  letters  that  have  been  scarcely  represented  in  this 
sketch  ;  those  which  are  filled  with  details  of  domes- 
tic life,  personal  and  private  incidents,  and  playful 
communications.  No  absent  child  was  left  in  ig- 
norance of  that  which  occurred  at  home.  Nothing 
that  could  interest,  edify,  or  amuse  was  thought  too 
trivial  to  be  recorded,  if  it  would  tend  to  strengthen 
the  bonds  of  family  affection.  "  I  believe  the  love 
of  home  to  be  the  best  safeguard  to  man  and  woman 
for  life,"  -■ —  she  once  said ;  and  she  used  every  op- 
portunity of  cherishing  that  love,  in  the  hearts  both 
of  the  present  and  the  absent.  She  had  no  habit  of 
reservation  or  concealment  with  those  about  her,  un- 
less in  regard  to  her  own  pains  and  trials.  And  as 
those  pains  and  trials  increased,  we  find  no  decline 
of  general  interest  or  free  communion.  More  and 
more  freely,  rather  than  less,  does  she  speak  of  her- 
self, her  expectations  as  to  this  life  and  another,  her 
concern  for  her  own  strength  and  resources,  and  the 
character  and  prospects  of  her  children.  The  follow- 
ing letter  to  her  son  was  written  some  time  in  the 
ummer  of  this  year. 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  403 

"Milton,  1847. 
*'  My  dear  John  :  — 

" I  am  not  now  as  able  to  keep  school  as  I  was 

then,  poorly  fitted  though  I  always  felt  myself.  My  head 
has  been  a  very  troublesome  member  for  a  long  time,  and 
1  have  had  in  the  course  of  the  last  year  and  a  half  two 
distinct  attacks,  which,  if  not  actually  paralytic,  were  suffi- 
ciently like  it  to  be  considered  premonitory  symptoms  of 
that  affection,  —  amounting  to  loss  of  sensation,  and  giddi- 
ness, followed  by  a  great  oppression  in  the  brain,  for  a  long 
time  after.  Since  this  I  have  found  that  I  soon  get  over- 
powered and  bewildered  in  the  bustle  of  the  school,  and, 
after  a  few  days'  trial,  it  is  only  by  going  at  once  to  sleep, 
that  I  can  get  my  bead  clear  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Be- 
sides that,  the  sense  of  hurry  which  I  have  from  the  daily 
pressure  of  the  necessity  of  adhering  to  certain  hours,  in 
order  to  get  through  the  necessaiy  business  of  the  day, 
keeps  my  head  in  a  state  of  tension  which  I  often  feel  must 
end  in  some  sudden  change.  I  work  almost  constantly 
eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  ;  but  this  I  could  bear, 
were  it  not  for  the  sense  of  hurry  I  have,  in  my  anxiety  to 

spare  E every  thing  that  I  possibly  can,  while  she  has 

the  labor  of  the  school.  Nor  is  this  all.  I  am  sensible 
that  the  trouble  in  my  side  does  not  diminish  or  stand  still  ; 
its  progress  is  slow,  but  evidendy  sure ;  and  though  there 
are  often  weeks,  in  which  I  am  not  reminded  of  it  by  any 
sensation,  there  are  times  when  it  produces  great  discom- 
fort. I  know  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  that  this  may  be 
so  many  years,  and  also,  that  at  any  moment  it  may  sud- 
denly come  to  a  crisis,  as  in  many  cases  I  have  known, 

"  And  I  feel  that  with  the  bare  possibility  (and  it  is  much 
more)  of  having  but  a  few  years  more  to  give  to  my 
children,  1  should  be  wrong  to  spend  these  few  years  in 
Buch  a  hurried  life,  that  I  cannot  have  time  to  give  them  an 


404  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

unfettered  hour.  This  is  the  case  now  ;  whether  from 
want  of  faculty,  or  an  undue  anxiety  to  spare  others,  or 
the  necessity  of  the  case,  I  cannot  say.  All  I  know  is,  that 
of  the  eighteen  hours  in  which  I  am  awake,  I  have  not  one 
commonly,  free  from  the  pressure  of  some  necessary,  im- 
perative occupation.  I  may  almost  say,  I  necer  choose  my 
employment;  and  as  you  find  it,  so  do  I  with  regard  to  my 
children  at  home,  —  I  cannot  give  any  of  them  a  hun- 
dredth part  of  the  time    I    would  gladly  devote    to   them. 

You  wonder  that  I  cannot  be  more  with  you.     You 

•would  not  wonder,  if  you  could  see  how  little  I  have  time 
to  do  with  my  children  at  home.  This  ought  not  to  be  so. 
But  then  comes  the  question,  how  am  I  to  live,  how  educate 
my  children,  and  pay  my  debts,  if  I  give  up  so  much  of 
my  income  .'' 

"  I  answer  myself  in  this  way,  and  I  feel  satisfied  with 
the  answer.  If  I  am  not  to  live,  what  now  supports  me 
will  help  towards  this  end  ;  and  if  I  do  live,  I  feel  justified 
in  creating  a  debt  for  my  children  to  pay  by  and  by,  when 
they  are  old  enough  to  work,  in  order  to  give  them  the 
means  of  working  to  advantage.  I  trust  they  will  all  find  a 
mission  to  fulfil,  which  will  keep  them  free  from  depend- 
ence, and  do  good  to  their  fellow-men.  I  will  trust  that  I 
shall  be  taken  care  of;  for  I  think  the  case  of  duty  is  clear, 
■  ~  at  least  it  is  so  to  me,  and  I  feel  that  I  cannot  turn  from  it. 

"  Now  do  not  think  that  this  uncertainty  of  life  troubles 
me,  or  makes  me  nervous,  and  unnecessarily  anxious.  I 
have  never  felt  more  perfect  peace  of  mind,  than  I  have 
for  the  last  three  years,  with  respect  to  death.  I  have  felt 
it  a  great  blessing  to  be  tlius  reminded  of  the  uncertainty 
of  my  life.  It  is  a  constant  check  upon  me,  and,  moreover, 
makes  all  the  pleasures  which  lie  in  my  path  greater  bless- 
ings. There  is  an  elevation  in  such  an  habitual  state  of 
mind,  which  takes  one  beautifully  away  fiom  the  annoying 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  405 

perplexities  of  life.  I  could  write  on  for  hours,  but  I  have 
said  enough.  You  will  understand  me,  and  that  is  all  I 
desire  now. 

"  Affectionately,  your  Mother." 

Another  expression  of  a  different  kind  was  called 
out  at  this  time,  by  a  case  of  bereavement  in  which 
she  felt  deeply  concerned.  We  give  the  letter  entire 
as  to  its  object  and  argument,  because  in  none  of  her 
letters,  and  in  no  others  that  we  recall,  is  the  question 
which  is  here  raised  so  well  stated  and  answered. 
It  is  a  question  which  comes  to  every  conscien- 
tious sufferer,  —  pertaining  to  the  conflict  between 
a  sense  of  duty  to  ourselves  and  duty  to  others,  in 
the  season  of  affliction  and  secret  communion,  — 
the  desire  for  repose  and  the  call  for  activity.  We 
well  know  what  conflicts  both  Mrs.  Ware  and  her 
husband  had  had,  in  regard  to  this  question ;  and  we 
follow  her  with  the  greater  satisfaction,  as  she  offers 
the  result  of  her  experience  and  conviction  to  one  of 
another  household,  and  of  the  other  sex. 

"Mfton,  1847. 
"  My  DEAR  Friend  : — 

"  My  visit  to  you  this  afternoon  was  so  broken,  so  unsatis- 
factory, my  thoughts  are  so  entirely  with  you,  and  my  desire 
to  help  you,  at  least  so  far  as  sympathy  can  do  so,  is  so  strong, 
that  I  must  indulge  myself  this  once  in  intruding  my  poor 
written  words  upon  you,  for  my  own  relief.  Very  grateful 
do  I  feel  to  you  for  uttering  yourself  so  freely  to  me  :  you 
do  not  mistake,  when  you  believe  that  I  can  understand  all 
your  doubts  and  fears,  misgivings  and  contentions.  I  have 
felt  them  all ;  and  in  the  knowledge  which  I  have  of  all  my 
husband  suffered,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  double   power  to 


406  LIFE    IN    MILTO\. 

sympathize  with  you.  Well  do  I  understand  that  strange 
elevation  of  spirit  which  comes  to  one  in  the  first  hours  of 
bereavement,  when  the  heart  is  strong  to  endure,  and  the 
mind  seems  to  act  spontaneously.  It  would  seem,  when 
one  with  whose  spirit  ours  had  become  as  it  were  identified 
'  passes  on,'  as  if  we  too  had  entered  '  behind  the  veil,'  and 
were  also  raised  above  the  weakness  and  suffering  of 
humanity.  But  this  cannot  last  long,  and  the  necessity  of 
a  return  to  the  occupations  of  life  dispels  the  illusion,  and 
then  comes  the  struggle  from  which  you  are  now  suffering. 
Two  opposing  duties  seem  to  present  themselves,  —  one 
claiming  quiet  seclusion,  the  other  impelling  to  great  ac- 
tivity. We  long  for  rest,  we  doubt  if  we  have  a  right  to 
risk  the  loss  of  any  portion  of  the  benefit  which  may  come 
to  us  from  the  life  of  meditation  and  self-communion  to 
which,  our  state  of  mind  naturally  leads  us,  by  going  back 
to  the  busy  bustle  of  external  life.  We  feel  that  our  soul 
has  been  moved  to  its  very  depth,  as  it  never  was  before, 
and  we  long  to  '  hold  the  fleet  angel  fast,  until  he  bless  us ' 
with  an  increase  of  spiritual  life,  proportionate  to  the  de- 
mands of  our  condition.  But  on  the  other  hand,  there  lie 
the  duties  of  life,  appointed  by  God  for  us  to  perform ;  in 
their  performance  lies  our  mission  to  the  world  ;  have  we 
any  right  to  neglect  them  for  any  object  of  self-improve- 
ment .?  How  shall  we  decide,  when  two  duties,  apparently 
of  equal  importance,  seem  to  us  perfectly  incompatible  ? 

"  But  here,  I  think,  lies  our  great  mistake.  We  separate 
that  which  God  has  joined  together;  there  can  be  no  op- 
position in  his  requisitions,  and  if  both  duties  are  required 
of  us,  it  must  be  that  they  may  be  united.  What  is  spirit- 
ual progress  ?  What  is  the  benefit  we  believe  to  be  in- 
tended for  us  by  the  discipline  of  bereavement  ?  Is  it  in- 
creased love  of  God,  reliance  upon  him,  union  of  soul  with 
him  }     How  shall  we  gain  these  by  any  process  of  mcdita* 


LITE    IN    MILTON.  407 

lion,  so  entirely  as  when,  contending  against  our  desire  for 
repose,  conscious  of  our  utter  weakness,  throwing  ourselves 
with  the  reliance  of  filial  affection  upon  a  Father's  love, 
we  go  forth  to  execute  His  will  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  duties 
He  has  assigned  us,  believing  that  His  promises  of  strength 
will  not  fail  ?  And  did  they  ever  fail  ?  And  do  we  not  by 
this  act  of  faith  bring  our  souls  into  that  union  with  God 
which  we  so  much  desire,  more  truly  than  by  any  abstract 
thought  ?  How  can  it  be  nearer  than  when,  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  our  human  weakness,  we  feel  that  whatever 
strength  we  have  is  His,  —  that  He  is  indeed  present  to  us, 
acting  in  us,  —  and  we  know  that,  while  we  have  this  faith. 
He  will  never  cease  to  aid  us. 

"  But  you  will  say  you  have  tried  this,  and  strength  does 
not  come ;  you  find  yourself  more  and  more  averse  tc 
effort,  more  and  more  incapable  of  it.  But  are  you  sure 
you  are  not  aiming  at  impossibilities,  —  that  you  are  not  re- 
quiring from  the  nature  God  has  given  you  more  than  you 
have  a  right  to  expect,  and  that,  by  striving  after  more  than 
you  can  reasonably  hope  to  obtain,  you  render  ineffective 
the  power  given  ?  Do  not  misunderstand  me.  I  would  not 
bring  down  in  the  very  slightest  degree  the  high  standard  of 
Christian  excellence  at  which  you  aim  ;  but  I  would  have 
you  understand  truly  the  nature  of  the  means  which  the 
Creator  has  given  us  by  which  to  attain  it.  '  Deal  gently 
with  thine  infirmity,  wait  God's  time.'  You  desire  at  once 
to  rise  to  the  height  to  which  you  believe  a  Christian  faith 
may  elevate  its  possessor,  and  you  are  discouraged  that  the 
work  is  not  accomplished  when  you  think  it  ought  to  be. 
Put  aside,  my  dear  friend,  this  desire  to  regulate  the  opera- 
tion of  God's  providence.  You  say  you  have  never  for  a 
moment  felt  that  you  were  hardly  dealt  with,  in  the  out- 
ward circumstances  of  this  affliction.  Apply  the  same  faith 
to  its  internal  circumstances  ;  give  up  your  own  will  as  fully 


408 


LIFE    IN    MILTON. 


in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other;  go  on,  meekly  relying 
upon  Almighty  wisdom,  with  your  appointed  work,  not 
attempting  too  much  at  once,  but  selecting  just  that  which 
seems  most  important,  increasing  your  labors  as  you  may 
find  strength  comes  to  aid  you,  and  be  content  to  use  such 
measure  of  strength  as  God  shall  give,  without  repining 
that  it  is  not  more  ;  and  this  will  bring  you  that '  peace '  for 
which  you  now  sigh.  Waste  not  one  moment  in  vain  re- 
gret that  you  cannot  do  all  you  desire.  O,  I  could  read 
you  such  a  page  of  suffering  from  this  source,  as  would 
make  you  weep  for  the  sinfulness  of  your  monitor  !  If  I 
cannot  be  an  example,  let  me  be  a  warning  to  you.  May 
I  be  an  efficient  one  ! 

"  Ever  your  friend. 

"  M.  L.  Ware." 

How  much  is  told  in  that  last  confession  and 
prayer!  She  who  thus  wrote  was  then  in  the  midsi 
of  a  fatherless  and  dependent  family,  bearing  a  load 
of  duty  never  discharged  to  her  own  satisfaction, 
wearing  a  face  of  unvarying  cheerfulness,  and  strug- 
gling with  a  fatal  disease,  whose  progress  could  not 
be  hidden  from  herself,  though  hidden  from  others. 
That  equanimity,  which  had  always  been  marked 
as  a  distinguishing  trait,  came  out  now  more  and 
more,  as  the  demand  increased,  and  the  difliculty 
also.  Every  one  knows  the  tendency  of  disease  to 
produce  irritation,  —  sometimes  imperceptibly  to 
the  sufferer,  sometimes  unavoidably,  and  with  a 
painful  consciousness.  In  no  duty  or  sympathy 
for  the  sick  is  there  more  need  of  kind  allowance; 
and  in  none,  perhaps,  is  it  more  wanting.  Here, 
it  was  not   needed.      No  irritation  ever   appeared. 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  409 

We  say  this,  not  from  that  cursory  and  friendly 
observation  which  so  often  mistakes,  but  from  those 
who  knew.  One  near  her  thus  speaks  of  her  equa- 
niiiity:  "Taking  her  life  through,  as  I  knew  it, 
th  ire  were  disturbing  causes  enough.  Neither  the 
lesser  nor  the  greater  seemed  to  throw  her  oft'  her 
balance.  I  cannot  recall  a  word  or  act  of  harshness. 
Disturbed,  moved,  sad,  I  have  seen  her,  but  nothing 
of  irritation  ;  and  the  first,  where  others  were  con- 
cerned, or  some  principle,  or  morality,  rather  than 
where  she  was  herself  personally  interested." 

Another  affliction  came,  and  came  nearer  than  any 
other  could,  out  of  her  own  family  circle.  The  de- 
cline which  she  had  so  anxiously  watched  in  "  Em- 
ma" terminated  as  she  had  long  known  it  must; 
and  that  true  friend  had  gone  before  her  to  a  purer 
sphere.  Deeply  must  Mary  have  felt  this  at  any 
time,  —  how  deeply  then !  Toward  the  end,  all  the 
time  that  could  be  spared,  day  and  night,  had  been 
passed  in  that  sick-room,  where  she  enjoyed  a  com- 
munion, and  exerted  an  influence,  that  few  could. 
Perfect  congeniality,  perfect  confidence,  an  intimacy 
of  years  and  souls,  a  unity  of  faith  and  hope,  with 
an  affection  unreserved  and  undimmed,  bound  them 
as  one ;  and  when  the  tie  was  severed,  the  world 
seemed  another  abode,  —  fast  passing  away. 

The  letters  in  which  Mrs.  Ware  speaks  of  this 
change  are  most  tender,  and  reveal  as  much  of  the 
character  of  the  writer  as  of  the  subject.  But  they 
are  too  personal  to  admit  a  free  use.  A  brief  ac- 
count we  may  take,  from  a  letter  which  we  ourselves 
received. 

35 


410  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

"  I  do  not  remember  that  I  have  written  to  you 
since  dear  cousin  Emma's  death.  I  should  love  to 
tell  you  of  the  pleasant  hours  passed  in  her  chamber 
after  lier  return  from  Europe,  the  precious  hours  of 
her  last  week  with  us.  Her  state  of  mir.d  was  a 
most  elevated  one,  but  her  words  were  few.  She 
could  not  overcome  the  habit  of  reserve  upon  spirit- 
ual subjects,  and  it  was  only  in  moments  of  the  most 
private  intercourse  that  she  would  utter  herself  freely. 
It  was  a  beautiful  case  of  great  humility,  united 
with  perfect  trust.  She  never  for  an  instant  fal- 
tered in  her  faith,  but  laid  down  her  almost  une- 
qualled power  with  as  perfect  readiness  as  if  she  had 
never  loved  its  exercise.  You  may  suppose  that 
her  loss  is  daily,  hourly  felt,  by  all  who  belonged  to 
her.  This  is  not  the  same  place  without  her.  We 
constantly  miss  her  wisdom  and  her  disinterested 
kindness.  Do  you  know  that  she  made  this  cottage 
mine,  —  and  more  ?  I  never  received  any  gift  which 
was  so  unexpected,  or  so  touching.  It  has  made 
this  place  more  beautiful  than  ever ;  for  the  very 
walls  have  now  a  sacred  association." 

On  Christmas  Eve,  1847,  Mrs.  Ware,  with  some 
of  her  children,  joined  a  family  gathering  at  Cam- 
bridge, in  th^  same  house  that  they  occupied  during 
those  twelve  eventful  years.  And  many  were  the 
recollections  awakened  there.  "  O,  how  strange  it 
seemed  to  me,  to  be  '  guest '  in  that  house,  on  such 
an  occasion !  I  could  scarcely  help  a  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility, as  if  it  were  my  affair.  And  my  heart 
turned  instinctively  to  the  thought  of  all  ray  respon- 
sibilities there,  and  the   thought  of  how  much  he 


LIFE    IN    MILTON.  411 

would  have  enjoyed,  and  added  to  the  enjoyment  of 
others.  There  was  a  sense  of  the  want  of  his  vis- 
ible presence,  such  as  I  never  expected  to  feel  again, 
so  familiar  have  I  become  with  the  idea  of  the  invis- 
ible." On  the  last  night  of  the  year,  she  writes 
in  a  tone  more  like  sadness  than  was  common 
with  her,  though  with  the  same  tranquil  trust:  — 
"  I  live  now  so  entirely  among  the  young,  who  could 
not  comprehend  the  results  of  an  old  woman's  long 
experience,  that  I  am  unconsciously  led  to  shut  up 
the  thoughts  which  mostly  occupy  me,  lest  any 
should  be  annoyed  by  what  they  might  not  under- 
stand. And  there  are  consequently  periods  when  it 
seems  as  if  I  should  stop,  from  want  of  the  sympathy 
and  counsel  of  some  contemporary  who  knew  the 
last  as  well  as  I  do  myself.  In  the  various  question- 
ings about  my  children,  and  the  many  doubts  which 
will  come  to  an  insulated  mind,  how  have  I  craved 

your  ear ! It  has  seemed  to  me,  since  Emma's 

death,  that  every  thing  was  giving  way  around  me.  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  a  sense,  a  perpetual  sense  of  un- 
certainty, appears  to  pervade  every  thing.  It  seems 
as  if  not  merely  one  strong  being  had  failed  by  the 
way,  but  as  if  strength  itself,  the  very  thing,  had  be- 
come weakness.  And  I  find  myself  clinging  more 
than  ever  to  the  things  that  remain,  and  more  and 
more  impatient  to  use  opportunities  of  intercourse 
with  those  I  love,  feeling  that  the  time  is  short  both 
for  them  and  myself.  Little  did  I  think,  at  this  time 
last  year,  that  I  should  be  here  now ;  and  when  I 
look  back  upon  the  interval,  and  remember  that,  in- 
stead of  the  sickness  I  anticipated,  not  one  day  of 


412  LIFE    IN    MILTON. 

actual  suspension  of  labor  have  I  had,  I  am  amazed 
at  the  small  amount  I  have  accomplished,  and  won- 
der why  it  is  I  am  left.  The  year  has  been  marked 
by  less  external  change  than  usual,  and  yet  it  has 
brought  some  important  changes  in  the  progress  of 
my  children's  education." 

And  if  Mrs.  Ware  had  not  expected  to  see  the 
end  of  that  year,  she  could  have  littJe  idea  of  seeing 
the  whole  of  another.  Yet  this  was  granted  her,  — 
and  a  little  more.  And  whatever  the  inward  change, 
theie  was  none  outward,  unless  in  greater  diligence  in 
duty,  and  a  more  earnest  endeavor  to  make  others 
happy.  This,  too,  was  evident,  in  conversation  and 
in  letters,  —  that  while  life  in  the  present  was  still 
full  and  bright,  there  was  a  growing  conviction  of 
life  beyond  and  above.  It  was  seen  particularly,  as 
one  and  another  of  her  friends  departed, —  when  the 
emotions  expressed  were  more  of  joy  than  of  sad- 
ness, as  in  the  case  of  a  bereavement  not  long  before. 
"  O,  how  the  holy  band  is  gathering  in  that  other 
state !  And  how  near  does  it  seem  to  us,  when  those 
with  whom  we  have  been  wont  to  have  daily  inter- 
course enter  it!  I  think,  as  I  grow  older,  no  part  of 
my  experience  satisfies  me  so  much,  as  the  conscious- 
ness of  an  increasing  sense  of  union  with  a  purely 
spiritual  state.  Not  that  one  loses  all  interest  in  tliis 
state,  but  there  comes  a  fuller  sense  of  the  reality  of 
another." 


XIV. 

THE     END. 

Of  Mrs.  Ware's  last  months  and  days  we  have 
nothing  remarkable  to  record.  They  did  not  differ 
from  the  months  and  years  that  preceded  them, 
except  that  they  were  the  last,  and  she  knew  they 
must  be.  But  she  did  not  on  that  account  seek  to 
impart  to  them  any  new  aspect,  or  new  occupation. 
She  had  no  formal  preparation  to  make  for  a  change, 
great  indeed  and  momentous,  yet  perfectly  familiar 
to  her  thoughts,  and  never  dismaying.  She  had  not 
left  the  work  of  life  to  be  done  after  the  power  to  do 
it  had  gone,  but  had  used  that  power  as  one  respon- 
sible for  the  use  of  all  that  was  given  her,  and  she 
continued  to  use  all  that  remained,  diligently  and 
tranquilly.  Had  she  been  asked,  as  another  once 
was,  "  What  would  you  do,  if  you  knew  you  should 
die  to-morrow  ?  "  we  suppose  her  reply  would  have 
been  the  same,  — "  That  which  I  am  doing  to-day." 
And  she  was  doing  a  great  deal,  —  as  much  perhaps 
as  she  had  ever  done,  in  all  that  pertained  to  family 
and  friends,  the  destitute  and  suffering.  And  she 
was  enjoying  a  great  deal,  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
with  apparently  more,  instead  of  less,  freedom  from 
that  sense  of  "  hurry "  which  had  so  troubled  her. 
This  she  expresses  in  a  note  that  we  received  from 
35* 


414 


THE    END. 


her  in  the  month  of  May,  1848,  which  shows  like- 
wise how  fresh  and  full  was  her  enjoyment  of  the 
opening  year.  "  We  are  beginning  to  look  lovely 
here.  It  seems  to  me  the  spring  was  never  so 
charming ;  but  perhaps  it  is  that  /  am  more  charm- 
ing than  usual !  Certain  it  is,  that  I  have  seldom 
been  in  so  favorable  a  state  to  enjoy  it,  so  free  from 
the  pressure  of  care  and  the  sense  of  hurry,  which  has 
been  the  bane  of  my  life.  I  am  more  willing  to 
leave  some  things  undone  than  I  was.  Is  not  this 
a  great  virtue  in  a  housekeeper,  whose  spring- 
cleaning  is  not  done,  or  likely  to  be  these  three 
months  ?     Our  school  has  not  yet  adjourned,  and  I 

shall  not  be  quite  settled  until  it  has Thanks 

for  your  letter ;  I  shall  answer  it,  if  I  ever  have  a 
quiet  hour  that  has  no  peremptory  demand  for  other 
employment." 

In  those  last  words  we  see  a  trait  which  many 
have  noticed  in  Mrs.  Ware,  and  which  one  of  her 
own  sex,  who  had  seen  her  in  many  situations, 
thus  describes :  "  I  never  knew  any  one  who  had  a 
more  just  idea  of  the  due  proportion  which  various 
duties  and  interests  should  bear  to  each  other.  She 
was  never  one-sided  in  her  views,  never  lived  for  one 
idea  alone,  but  took  a  comprehensive  view  of  all  her 
duties  and  of  all  her  relations  to  her  fellow-beings, 
and  gave  to  each  its  due  portion  of  time  and  atten- 
tion." This  habit  is  not  uncommon,  perhaps,  in 
health  and  active  life  ;  but  not  every  one  attempts 
to  maintain  it  in  sickness  and  the  approach  of  death. 
That  Mrs.  Ware  was  fully  conscious  of  that  ap- 
proach, though  yet  in  apparent  health,  appears  from 


THE    END.  415 

many  circumstances.  But  she  did  not  talk  of  it,  and 
few  knew  it.  She  preferred  not  to  communicate  it 
even  to  her  family  until  it  was  necessary,  lest  it 
should  check  the  freedom  or  disturb  the  serenity  of  a 
happy  household,  preventing  rather  than  promoting 
the  performance  of  duties  all  the  more  imperative  if 
the  time  were  short.  From  a  letter  to  an  absent 
daughter,  we  take  the  following,  so  pleasantly  writ- 
ten. 

«  Milton,  May  2,  1848.     Dear  E :  Have  not  1 

got  some  pretty  little  paper  upon  which  to  indite  my 
loving  thoughts  of  thee  ?  It  becomes  me  to  have  a 
fine  pen,  and  to  try  and  be  rather  refined  than  other- 
wise in  my  chirography!  Alas  for  me,  who  have 
to  write  with  quill-nibs  without  mending!  But  I 
have  rather  a  fancy  for  these  close  lines,  which  re- 
mind me  of  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  I  used  to 
write  as  closely  without  lines.  I  am  particularly  re- 
minded of  those  days,  by  having  received  to-day  my 
own  letters  to  Gousin  Emma ;  and  to  decipher  some 
of  them  would  try  better  eyes  than  most  people  pos- 
sessed in  her  days,  so  closely  written,  so  crossed  and 
recrossed  are  they.  I  read  one  of  them,  and  have  been 
living  over  again  all  day  those  singular  Osmotherly 
experiences.  I  do  sometimes  wish  that  I  could  have 
had  the  leisure,  while  I  had  the  power,  to  write  out 
for  the  information  of  my  children  that  page  of  my 
life.  It  was  so  powerful  a  lesson  of  faith  and  trust, 
that  it  could  not  fail  of  producing  in  them,  in  some 
degree,  the  same  effect  that  it  did  upon  me.  In 
looking  back  upon  it,  I  cannot  but  feel  that  it  was  a 
peculiar  blessing  to  me,  as  preparatory  to  the  trials 


410  THE    END. 

which  were  to  follow  ;  without  just  such  a  teaching 
it  seems  to  me  they  would  have  overwhelmed  me. 
I  oflen  wish  I  could  convey  to  the  minds  of  those 
who  are  coming  upon  the  stage  of  life,  the  utter  in- 
significance into  which  outward  circumstances  sink 
in  retrospect,  other  than  as  the  occasion  for  the  cul 
tivation  of  the  inner  being.  One  almost  forgets 
whether  outward  things  were  agreeable  or  not.  The 
spiritual,  intellectual  life  is  the  most  prominent;  the 
progress  of  our  own  characters,  the  affection  which 
met  our  affections,  the  satisfactions  of  the  soul,  are 
all  that  leave  any  lasting  impression  upon  the  mem 
ory." 

By  the  middle  of  that  summer,  her  strength  had 
declined  very  perceptibly  to  herself,  though  not  to 
common  observers,  and  she  felt  that  the  time  had 
come  for  an  explicit  communication.  And  never 
can  we  forget  the  perfect  composure  and  natural 
cheerfulness  with  which  she  spoke  of  it  to  some  of  us 
who  had  little  idea  of  the  whole  truth,  —  showing  a 
paper  that  she  had  written  to  one  of  her  children, 
and  asking  counsel  in  regard  to  it.  The  paper  is  of 
too  private  a  character  to  be  given  here,  except  a  few 
of  the  more  general  passages.  "  1  have  not  thought  it 
worth  while  to  trouble  you,  or  any  one  else,  with  the 
knowledge  of  this,  while  I  was  well  enough  to  go  on 
as  usual,  and  had  no  reason  to  expect  change.  The 
doctor  has  always  said  I  migiit  live,  as  many  had, 
for  years,  and  die  from  some  otiier  cause,  before  this 
became  very  troublesome;  and  it  may  yet  be  so. 
But  within  a  few  months  the  course  of  the  thing  ha8 
changed,  and  I  cannot  but  feel  that  it  may  come  to 


THE    END.  417 

a  crisis  at  any  time,  and  I  be  suddenly  prostrated. 
With  these  views,  I  wish  not  to  hide  from  myself 
my  danger;  and  I  thank  God  for  the  influence  which 
this  consciousness  has  had  vipon  my  mind  for  a  long 
time  past.  I  have  felt  it  good  for  my  soul  to  know 
that  I  carried  about  with  me  a  disease  which  must 
be  fatal.  It  has  helped  me  more  than  any  thing 
else  to  put  the  things  of  this  life  into  their  true  rela- 
tive position.  And  while  it  has  not  for  a  moment 
lessened  my  interest  or  my  enjoyment  of  any  thing 
around  me,  it  has  saved  me  from  many  painful  mo- 
ments and  anxious  cares,  by  showing  me  the  insig- 
nificance of  much  that  I  once  cared  too  much  for. 
The  only  evil  I  have  found  in  it  is  a  sense  of  hurry ; 
feeling  that  I  may  have  but  little  time  to  work  in,  I 
am  tempted  to  work  hurriedly,  and  thus  with  less 
comfort.     I  cannot  tell  you  the   many  thoughts   I 

have  of  the  future  destiny  of  my  children I 

need  not  tell  you  how  inexpressibly  nearer  and  dear- 
er all  the  children  are  to  me  every  day  I  live,  or  how 
earnestly  I  pray  that  they  may  be  such  as  their  fa- 
ther's children  ought  to  be." 

In  the  early  autumn,  she  spent  much  of  her  time 
at  the  house  of  her  son  in  Cambridgeport,  in  whose 
family  there  occurred  a  case  of  sickness  and  death, 
which  engaged  her  deepest  sympathies  and  tasked 
her  strength.  Once  more  she  became  a  nurse  and 
laborious  helper.  After  it,  she  sank  for  a  time,  but 
again  rallied,  and  through  the  greater  part  of  the 
winter  continued  strong  in  spirit,  with  great  energy 
of  will  and  action,  interested  in  every  thing,  grateful 
for  every  thing,  busily   and    happily  occupied.     Of 


418  THE    END. 

the  accounts  given  us  by  others,  beside  what  we  aaw 
and  heard  of  her  whole  bearing  and  conversation 
that  winter,  we  can  use  little,  lest  it  should  seem  like 
eulogy,  —  which  we  desire  to  avoid,  particularly  in 
connection  with  her  death.  But  should  this  prevent 
all  freedom  of  expression  ?  If  we  may  not  speak 
from  our  own  mind  and  heart,  may  we  not  from  the 
testimony  of  those  who  were  near  enough  to  under- 
stand the  whole,  yet  with  no  relation  or  interest  to 
mislead  them  ? 

A  lady  writes  :  "  It  was  my  great  privilege  to  pass 
a  few  weeks  with  her  in  the  sanctuary  of  her  own 
home,  in  the  early  progress  of  the  malady  which  ter- 
minated her  natural  life.  Words  fail  me  to  convey 
my  impression  of  her  at  this  period.  Always  serene 
and  cheerful,  there  was  yet  a  seriousness  in  her  man- 
ner, and  a  depth  of  purpose  in  her  words  and  acts, 

that  were  to  me  very  impressive Every  duty 

was  to  her  always  a  religious  duty ;  and  hence  we 
saw  in  her  the  same  fidelity  and  perfectness  in  every 
household  care,  however  humble  or  distasteful,  as  in 

employments  of  a  more  congenial  character 

While  her  life  was  to  me  highly  inspiring,  it  was 
also  deeply  humiliating.  She  seemed  to  me  always 
sufficient  to  herself  in  her  great  resources,  and  I  felt 
that  I  could  be  nothing  to  her.  I  once  told  her  so; 
she  smiled,  and  said,  '  You  don't  know  how  weak  1 
feel,  and  how  I  long  to  lean  upon  some  one,  and  be 
caressed  and  petted  like  a  child.' " 

A  near  neighbor  and  privileged  friend  says: 
"  When  we  learned  that  her  days  were  numbered,  as 
we  did  some  months  before  her  death,  we  of  course 


THE    END.  419 

looked  upon  every  thing  connected  with  her  with  a 
more  subdued  and  chastened  interest.  She  seldom, 
almost  never,  alluded  to  her  condition.  But  there 
were  little  valedictory  acts*  to  be  remembered  when 
she  was  gone,  that  showed  her  thoughtfulness  and 
love.  The  last  time  1  saw  her  at  church  was  on 
Thanksgiving  day,  the  great  family  festival  of  New 
England.  During  most  of  the  services  she  was 
in  tears,  doubtless  thinking  of  those  whom  she  was 
soon  to  join,  and  of  those  now  with  her  who  must 
spend  their  next  Thanksgiving  alone.  But  her 
tears  were  tears  of  endearment  and  tenderness,  more 

than   of   sorrow Gradually  her  walks  were 

given  up.  Some  unusual  calls  on  her  sympathy 
and  strength  may  possibly  have  shortened  her  suf- 
ferings. '  But  if  I  had  foreseen  it  all,'  she  said,  '  I 
should  have  done  the  same.'  There  was  no  shrink- 
ing from  what  lay  before  her,  but  that  entire  humili- 
ty which  neither  presumes  nor  fears,  and  is  content 
with  what  God  appoints." 

But  we  need  not  rely  on  others  for  a  knowledge 
of  Mrs.  Ware's  condition  and  temper  at  this  time. 
Her  own  words  still  speak  for  her,  and  speak  with 
the  same  clearness  and  calmness  as  ever.  Letters 
and  notes  were  written  to  all  who  had  any  claim, 
through  the  winter.  The  year  was  not  suffered  to 
close  without  one  more  "  annual,"  —  the  last  seal  to 
that  firm  friendship.  Portions  of  these  letters  and 
notes  will  serve  as  the  best  index  to  the  progress  of 
her  life,  —  for  we  cannot  call  it  the  decline. 

"  December  26, 1848.  Dear  John  :  You  must  won- 
der why  I  have  not  written  to  you  in  all  this  age  of 


420  THE    END. 

a  v/eek  since  you  were  here.  In  truth,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  do  so,  for  I  had  to  give  up  and  go  to  bed. 
T  should  have  been  wise  had  I  done  so  when  I  first 
came  home,  I  suppose ;  but  I  was  so  sure  that  I  had 
no  right  to  expect  to  feel  better,  that  I  could  not 
think  it  worth  while.  I  am  better  now,  and  am  go- 
ing to  venture  to  town  to-morrow.  I  have  had  but 
one  hour  yet  for  accounts,  and  as  my  arm  is  becom- 
ing more  and  more  useless,  I  dare  not  put  off  doing 
what  that  arm  alone  can  do.  I  desire  so  to  arrange 
matters    that    I    may    have    only    tranquillity. —  no 

hurry,  no   bustle,   no  irritation  anywhere I 

have  none  but  cheerful  views  for  myself,  and  I  desire 
to  be  spared  anxiety  about  the  outside  to  mar  that 

cheerfulness 1  have  promised  to  go  into  Mr. 

B 's,  New  Year's  eve,  and  can  do  that  with  little 

fatigue.  Kiss  Henry  boy  for  his  grandmother,  and 
wish  him  a  '  happy  new  year'  for  me  when  the  time 
comes." 

"  December  31,  1848.     Dear  N :  Once  more  1 

will  make  an  attempt  to  write  to  you,  for  I  cannot 
let  this  season  go  without  giving  you  some  record  of 
what  is  passing,  —  as  my  reason  tells  me  it  is  in  all 
probability  my  last  annual  missive.  Do  not,  my 
dear  friend,  shrink  from  this  idea,  as  if  it  were  some 
dreadful  fact  which  you  wished  not  to  realize.  1  can 
write  it,  I  trust  I  can  bring  it  home  as  a  truth,  with- 
out the  slightest  quickening  of  the  pulse,  without  a 
wish  to  decide  my  own  fate.  I  would  bless  God, 
that  in  His  tender  love  He  has  so  gradually  brought 
me  to  the  consciousness  of  the  great  uncertainty  of 
my  own  life,  that  all  connected  with  that  uncertainly 


THE    END.  421 

has  been  familiar  to  me  through  the  softening  in- 
fluence of  distance,  and  my  vision  can  now  bear  the 
strong  light  of  the  nearer  presence  without  dismay. 
In  recalling  the  various  circumstances  in  which  I 
have  written  my  many  annuals  to  you,  I  cannot  re- 
member one  in  which  I  have  had  less  anxiety  about 
the  future.  ^  I  feel  strangely  perplexed  sometimes  at 
this ;  I  know  that  while  it  is  possible  my  life  may 
be  prolonged  many  years,  yet  they  would  be  years 
of  suffering,  of  comparative  uselessness,  and  perhaps 
of  great  discomfort  to  those  around  me ;  and  still 
more,  that  the  more  probable  prospect  is  a  rapid,  if 
not  sudden,  annihilation  of  life.  I  have  children  for 
whose  welfare  I  have  lived,  and  cared  only  to  live 
for  the  last  five  years ;  and  of  whose  fate  when  I  am 
gone  I  cannot  even  guess.  I  have  felt  that  my  life 
was  important  to  them  ;  and  when  the  idea  of  being 
obliged  to  leave  them  first  came  to  me,  I  thought 
T  must  be  a  great  loss  to  them ;  but  now  I  cannot 
make  it  seem  so  by  any  process  of  thought.  Why 
is  this  ?  how  is  this  ?  I  cannot  tell.  I  do  not  love 
them  less ;  on  the  contrary,  my  tenderness  of  feeling 
towards  them  increases  every  day.  I  never  cared  so 
much  to  have  them  with  me,  I  never  enjoyed  their 
various  powers  more.  Is  it  that  I  am  under  a  delu- 
sion,—  that  death  is  not  the  reality  to  my  mind  which 
I  conceived  it  to  be  ?  1  confess  I  cannot  answer  s-at- 
isfactorily.  I  seem  to  myself,  as  I  did  at  sea  in  a 
dangerous  storm,  quiet,  confiding,  sure  that  no  hu- 
man help  can  aid,  and  not  anxious  to  look  beyond 
the  present.  But  it  may  be  that  it  is  only  because, 
while  we  are  able  to  exercise  bolli  mental  and  physi- 
36 


422  THE    END. 

cal  powers  in  some  way  all  the  time,  it  is  impoB- 
sible  to  bring  home  the  conviction  that  all  may  stop 
at  any  moment. 

"  One  solution  of  the  mystery  comes  to  me  some- 
times. You  know  I  have  felt,  ever  since  my  hus- 
band's death,  that  it  was  the  most  inexplicable  mys- 
tery that  my  children  should  have  been  left  to  my 
sole  care  instead  of  his,  when  I  was  so  deficient  in 
the  power  to  do  for  them  what  a  parent  should.  I 
could  only  satisfy  myself  by  the  fact,  that  the  All- 
wise,  All-powerful,  could  overrule  my  mistakes,  and 
I  had  no  right  to  ask  why.  This  consciousness 
of  inefficiency  has  never  left  me,  and  I  cannot 
therefore  feel  that  my  withdrawal  will  be  to  them  an 
essential  evil.  I  have  seen  many  instances  of  chil- 
dren left,  as  mine  will  be,  to  their  own  guidance, 
who  have  evidently  made  much  stronger  characters 
for  that  self-dependence.  And  though  they  may 
suffer,  perhaps,  as  I  did,  from  the  loss  of  that  aflfec- 
tion  which  a  parent  only  can  give,  we  see  so  many 
sufTering  quite  as  much  from  the  misdirection  of  that 
affection,  where  the  tie  is  not  thus  broken,  that  we 
dare  not  say,  in  any  given  instance,  which  fate 
would  be  the  best  for  a  child.  Of  one  thing  we  are 
certain;  we  are  short-sighted,  finite  beings,  our 
minds  can  fathom  but  part,  '  one  little  part,'  of  the 
plan  of  Providence ;  and  we  cannot  tell  but  what 
the  most  adverse  circumstaiTces  may  be  made  instru- 
mental to  the  education  of  the  soul,  by  that  over- 
ruling Power  which  sees  the  end  and  the  beginning. 
We  understand  so  little  of  the  true  character  of  each 
individual  mind,  that  we  know  not  but  that  what 


THE    END.  423 

seems  most  adverse  is  in  reality  best  adapted  to  its 
wants.  Why,  then,  can  we  not  be  content  to  give 
up  our  own  desires,  our  own  judgments,  all  anxie- 
ties, all  plans,  and  trust  that  all  will  be  ordered  right? 
Not  certainly  to  sit  down  passively  and  do  nothing; 
but,  carefully  watching  the  indications  of  Providence, 
to  exercise  our  best  judgments  in  trying  to  further 
its  designs,  and  be  content  with  the  issues." 

"  January  21,  1849.  Dear  Louisa :  I  send  the 
above  just  as  it  has  lain  in  my  desk  these  three 
weeks,  to  show  you  that  I  have  '  made  an  effort.' 
I  devoted  that  last  evening  of  the  year  to  writing  to 

you  and  N ,  and  began  your  letter  first ;  but  my 

arm  was  so  painful  that  I  soon  found  I  could  not 
accomplish  both ;  and  I  laid  aside  yours,  because  I 
was  reluctant  to  omit,  for  the  first  time  in  more  than 
thirty  years,  my  annual  to  her,  feeling  as  I  did  that 
it  would  probably  be  my  last.  This  you  will  pardon  ; 
but,  in  justice  to  myself,  I  must  go  back  and  tell  you 
why  I  had  not  before  even  commenced  an  answer 
to  you,  because  I  consider  the  mere  fact  of  seeming 
neglect  of  such  a  letter  ought  to  be  fully  explained, 

for  the  credit  of  human  nature  in  general I  have 

been  greatly  blessed  in  finding,  that,  as  the  reality 
of  what  lies  before  me  has  become  mo^  and  more 
distinct  to  my  consciousness,  I  have  lost  nothing  of 
the  tranquil  faith  which  made  me  willing  to  acqui- 
esce in  it.  My  nervous  system  is  not  touched  yet  in 
a  way  to  affect  the  firmness  of  my  views  of  the  fu- 
ture. My  great  study  now  is,  how  to  do  my  part 
towards  making  this  experience  of  most  value  to  my 
chiMren.      While  I  wish  not  to  withhold  from  them 


424 


THE    END. 


any  benefit  they  may  receive  by  free  and  full  knowl- 
edge of  my  condition,  I  am  sure  it  must  be  intro- 
duced with  a  judicious  reference  to  their  different 
casts  of  character.  I  am  feeling  my  vva}',  and  ear- 
nestly pray  to  be  guided  aright As  to  my  vis- 
iting you,  I  have  not  been  a  mile  from  home  for 
many  weeks,  —  can  only  ride  a  little  in  a  very  easy 
vehicle  without  suffering  for  days  after  it.  But  I  am 
content  to  be  quiet.  After  such  a  life  of  activity,  I 
enjoy  the  right  to  be  still,  more  than  I  can  tell ;  and 
I  have  home  employment  enough  to  fill  all  the 
time,  if  it  prove  ten  times  as  long  as  I  think  it 
will.  I  hope  to  see  you  here  when  the  weather 
is  warmer,  if  God  should  spare  me  until  then. 
God  bless  you,  dear  L. !  I  love  to  have  your  let- 
ters, but  cannot  promise  to  answer  them  very  punc- 
tually." 

^'■January  28,  1849,  Sunday  Evening.  My  dear 
Lucy  :  Strange  indeed  must  it  seem  to  you,  that 
your  kind,  sympathizing  letter,  written  more  than 
two  months  since,  should  not  have  received  an  an- 
swer long  before  this;  and  if  you  have  not,  through 
some  of  your  mutual  friends,  heard  something  of  the 
progress  of  things  with  us  since  then,  you  must  think 
it  perfectly  unpardonable.  But  in  truth,  dear  Lucy, 
I  have  thought  much  of  you,  and  longed  to  write, 
and  still  more  to  see  you ;  and  nothing  short  of 
physical  inability  has  prevented  me  from  long  ago 
reporting  myself  to  you.  It  is  not  worth  while  now 
to  go  back  to  the  various  causes  which  at  first  pre- 
vented my  writing. 

"  1    have    lost   ground    ijrcatly    in    the    last    thiee 


THE    EN1>.  425 

months,  and  should  I  continue  to  do  so  for  the  next 
in  the  same  proportion,  I  shall  be  a  mere  burden; 
but  no  one  can  form  any  calculation  about  it,  and  I 
desire  not  to  attempt  it.  I  have  no  wish  to  pene- 
trate the  future.  I  know  all  will  be  ordered  as  it 
had  best  be.  What  more  can  I  need  to  know  ?  I 
feel  that  I  have  special  cause  for  gratitude  in  the 
length  of  time  given  me  to  make  the  subject  famil- 
iar to  my  mind;  and  not  less  so,  that  the  disease  so 
far  does  not  disturb  the  perfect  tranquillity  of  my 
mind,  or  take  from  me  any  of  the  advantages  of  this 
long  preparation.  My  faith  is  strong  that  He  who 
has  been  the  Father  of  the  fatherless,  and  the  wid- 
ows' God,  will  protect  and  guide  the  orphans  I  must 
leave  behind  me.  It  is  not  in  vain  that  I  have  had 
an  orphan's  experience.  He  guided  me  in  safety 
through  the  many  perils  which  beset  the  lonely  one ; 
I  may  surely  trust  Him  for  those  to  whom  He  has 
vouchsafed  the  aid  of  kindred  so  near  and  dear. 
My  only  care  now  is,  how  to  do  my  part  in  giving 
them  the  full  advantage  of  this  discipline,  and  I  ear- 
nestly pray  to  be  guided  aright I  should  love  to 

see  you,  and  hope  to  do  so  in  the  course  of  the  win- 
ter or  spring.  I  sit  quietly  at  home,  but  have  sel- 
dom a  day  without  visitors,  sometimes  to  weariness- 
but  I  love  to  see  my  friends,  and  they  are  many ;  I 
cannot  say  nay  to  them.  I  have  not  been  to  Cam- 
bridge since  I  first  came  home,  and  to  Boston  only 
twice  for  two  months,  and  could  not  do  it  now.  But 
perhaps,  when  I  can  take  more  air,  I  may  gain  a 
little  more  strength,  and  stay  a  little  longer  than 
seems  probable  now.  Of  this  you  may  rest  assured, 
36* 


426 


THE    END. 


that,  come  when  it  may,  I  can  say  with  perfect  truth 
*  Not  as  I  will,  but  as  Thou  wilt.' " 

"  February  3,  1849.  Dear  Friend :  I  know  you 
will  be  glad  to  have  a  word  directly  from  us  of  our 
welfare,  and  I  therefore  gladly  avail  myself  of  a  kind 
offer  to  take  a  note  to  you,  though  I  have  time  only 
for  a  short  one.  I  have  had  my  ups  and  downs 
since  you  were  here,  but  on  the  whole  do  not  think 
there  is  any  material  change;  —  some  days  of  great 
suffering,  and  then  again  days  and  nights  of  perfect 
ease.  So  I  have  had  much  for  which  to  be  grateful 
in  the  alternation,  for  the  days  of  suffering  made  the 
seasons  of  relief  more  delightful,  and  the  rest  enables 
me  the  better  to  bear  the  suffering.  Much  indeed 
have  I  to  be  grateful  for.  Never  was  kindness  be- 
stowed upon  mortal,  I  believe,  such  as  is  every  day 
showered  upon  me,  and  nothing  yet  has  come  to  dis- 
turb the  serenity  of  my  mind.  I  find  myself  as  free 
to  enjoy  all  that  is  passing  as  ever,  and  the  '  daily 
duty,'  small  though  it  be  to  me  now,  interests  and 
satisfies  me I  have  an  almost  incessant  in- 
flux of  visitors,  which  sometimes  wearies  me ;  but 
then  I  \ove  to  see  them,  and  I  enjoy  the  occasional 
quiet  hour  all  the  more.  My  wakeful  hours  at  night 
are  the  most  precious,  being  happily  free  from  all 
nervous  restlessness ;  and  often  do  I  wish  I  had  some 
other  wakeful  spirit  at  my  side  with  whom  I  could 
commune  of  the  passing  visions.  But  enough  of 
self." 

"Dear  Maria:  I  did  not  like,  in  your  short  visit, 
to  occupy  any  time  with  self;  but  I  should  love  to 
tell  you  of  the  blessed  peace  which  is  given  me  in 


•     THE    END.  427 

relation  to  the  trial  which  lies  before  me,  and  of  the 
faith  and  hope  which  shed  their  tranquil  light  upon 
the  future,  even  in  respect  to  that  most  trying  point, 

What  will  become  of  my  children  ? For  while 

I  feel  that  every  day  which  is  spared  me  makes 
them  all  more  and  more  dear  to  me,  I  realize  more 
and  more  that  I  cannot  be  separated  from  them." 

The  friend  to  whom  those  last  words  were  written, 
then  a  wife  and  mother  herself,  and  once  a  cherished 
parishioner  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ware,  has  since  joined 
their  communion  above.  And  her  part  of  this  cor- 
respondence shows  how  beautiful  had  been  the  influ- 
ence of  the  life  whose  close  she  now  witnessed.  In- 
deed, the  fact  itself  should  be  stated,  if  nothing  more, 
as  belonging  to  the  actual  character  of  Mary  Ware, 
that  the  many  letters  and  notes  which  came  to  her 
in  these  declining  days,  from  friends  near  and  friends 
abroad,  are  filled,  not  with  empty  praise,  nor  yet 
useless  and  distressing  grief,  but  with  expressions  of 
grateful  joy  for  the  power  of  her  faith  in  the  present 
struggle,  and  its  power  upon  them,  in  the  past  and 
always.  If  ever  there  was  evidence  of  the  reality 
and  influence  of  the  Christian  faith  in  itself,  or  of  a 
peculiar  form  of  it,  it  might  be  shown  here.  The 
believer  and  sufferer  thought  less  of  any  peculiarities, 
than  of  the  essential  spirit  and  power.  But  all  that 
she  had  held,  she  retained,  and  found  sufficient,  —  un- 
failingly, abundantly  sufficient.  And  it  was  a  bless- 
ing to  her  in  her  last  days,  to  know  that  others  of 
the  same  faith  felt  its  sustaining  power,  and  shared 
with  her  in  its  peace  and  joy.  The  friend  to  whom 
we   have  just   referred  writes :   "  Scarcely  an    hour 


428  THE    END. 

passes  in  the  day,  that  I  do  not  think  of  you  with  so 
much  tenderness  and  sympathy  as  I  have  no  words 
to  convey  to  you.  The  thought  of  you  does  me 
good.  I  know  what  is  passing  in  the  depth  of  your 
soul,  and  it  gives  me  strength  to  go  on.  Will  you 
pray  for  me,  that  while  I  live  I  may  do  what  is 
right,  cheerfully  and  submissively,  if  not  joyfully?" 
She  begs  Mrs.  Ware  to  write  down,  or  let  another 
write,  some  passages  of  her  life.  "  Your  experience 
has  so  blessed  me,  that  I  long  to  spread  its  influence. 
I  can  never  thank  you  for  what  you  and  our  sainted 
friend,  with  whom  you  seem  now  more  than  ever 
'  one,'  have  done  for  my  soul."  Another,  who  was 
herself  the  widowed  wife  of  one  of  the  best  of 
men,  writes  to  Mrs.  Ware  of  their  former  intercourse 
and  communion  :  "  There  has  been  no  alloy  mingled 
in  this  cup  of  blessing;  we  can  carry  it  all  with  us 
to  our  Father's  house.  With  my  whole  heart  I  re- 
joice that  you  are  able  to  act  out  your  highest  con- 
victions, that  your  disease  so  gently  looses  the  bonds 
to  earth,  as  to  leave  your  spirit  free  to  bear  its 
testimony  to  the  last  to  the  power  of  your  faith 
in  the  goodness  of  God,  and  the  reality  of  ever- 
lasting life.  '  He  that  liveth  and  believeth  shall 
never  see  death.'  With  you  and  me  death  has  lost 
its  sting.  Are  we  not  willing  to  go  where  those  we 
have  loved  so  truly  are  gone  ?  Shall  we  not  gladly 
make  their  home  our  home  ?  It  is  not  the  fear  of 
death  that  ever  presses  upon  me,  but  the  fear  of  not 
being  worthy  of  the  unutterable  happiness  of  a  re- 
union with  those  that  have  gone  before  me;  so  I 
Welcome  pain,  hoping  it  may  ))urge  me  of  my  sins, 


THE   END.  429  ' 

and  make  me  move  fit  for  heaven.  Sometimes, 
when  the  idea  is  very  clear  and  strong  in  my  mind 
of  eternal  life  with  the  good  and  great  souls  that  I 
have  known  here,  I  gasp  for  breath,  and,  like  the 
disciples,  '  cannot  believe  for  joy.'  And  surely, 
dear  Mary,  the  love  that  has  been  perfect  love  can- 
not be  quenched  or  turned  from  us  in  the  land  of 
spirits  to  which  we  are  tending,  —  in  which  you 
seem  to  me  now  to  be  living." 

These  sentiments  are  the  reflection  of  her  mind, 
who  had  done  so  much  to  form  or  invigorate  them. 
They  were  some  of  the  blessed  fruits  of  the  faith 
that  she  and  her  husband  had  cherished,  —  the  faith 
that  still  bound  her  to  him,  and  to  all  whom  she 
loved.  As  such,  she  welcomed  them.  But  the  mo- 
ment the  partiality  of  friends  carried  them  beyond 
this,  and  implied  the  least  merit  or  power  of  her 
own,  she  was  pained.  "  I  thank  you  for  this  note  ; 
yet  —  shall  I  say  it  ?  —  it  pained  me.  I  do  not  like  to 
feel  that  my  friends  are  attributing  to  my  efforts  that 
which  I  feel  is  the  direct  action  of  a  higher  power. 
Knowing  as  I  do  how  great  are  my  deficiencies,  how 
far  1  fall  short  of  the  'perfect  stature,'  I  cannot  but 

feel  humbled  by  such  expressions Please  thank 

Mrs. most  gratefully  for  her  kind  offers  of  aid. 

I  seem  to  be  so  overwhelmed  with  comforts,  that  I 
have  nothing  to  ask  for  myself.  O,  how  great  is  the 
goodness  of  God  towards  me  I " 

It  is  a  touching  incident,  that  one  letter  came  from 
England  just  too  late.  It  was  from  '  little  Jamie,' 
the  motherless  boy,  now  a  man,  whose  life  Mary 
Pickard  had  been  instrumental  in  saving,  during  the 


430 


THE    END. 


dreadful  sickness  at  Osmotherly.  She  had  never 
heard  from  him.  But  he  now  wrote  a  long  and 
grateful  letter,  thanking  her  for  her  kindness  to  his 
dying  parents  and  to  himself,  of  which  he  had  heard 
so  much,  as  well  as  for  her  continued  remembrance 
of  his  aged  grandmother  as  long  as  she  lived.  Had 
the  letter  come  a  few  days  sooner,  it  would  have 
rendered  still  more  fervent  the  thankfulness  which 
filled  and  animated  that  deathless  heart. 

We  offer  nothing  more  from  Mrs.  Ware's  pen. 
She  used  it  as  long  as  she  had  strength,  forgetting 
no  friend,  keeping  her  personal  and  domestic  ac- 
counts, and  leaving  nothing  to  others  that  she  could 
do  herself.  Attention  to  things  temporal  was  with 
her  not  even  secondary,  but  part  of  religion,  all  of 
which  was  primary  and  essential.  Essential  also, 
in  her  view,  was  the  duty  of  cheerfulness,  and  of 
making  others  happy.  Thoughtfulness  for  others, 
and  a  participation  in  aU  their  joys,  were  among  the 
latest  manifestations,  as  prevailing  in  sickness  as  in 
full  health.  She  wished  no  household  duty  to  stop 
for  her,  no  happy  face  of  youth  or  manhood  to  lose 
its  brightness.  The  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  song 
of  the  children,  were  glad  notes  even  to  her  decay- 
ing sense.  "  Never  did  a  sick-room  have  less  of  the 
odor  of  sickness  than  that,"  says  one  of  her  chil- 
dren. "  It  was  the  brightest  spot  on  earth.  Noth- 
ing was  shut  out  from  it,  but  the  door  stood  wide 
for  all  the  joys  and  hopes  of  all,  even  to  the  last." 

In  this  connection  it  deserves  to  be  mentioned, 
that  Mrs.  Ware  found  a  true  and  most  devoted 
friend  in   her  physician.      She  knew  the   worth  of 


THE    END.  431 

Buch  a  friend ;  and  it  was  one  of  her  last  acts  of 
thoughtfulness  and  gratitude,  to  beg  her  children  to 
remember  the  kindness  of  the  Doctor.* 

The  last  letter  that  Mrs.  Ware  wrote,  or  rather  dic- 
tated, was  in  behalf  of  an  aged  and  destitute  clergy- 
man, whose  family  she  had  often  taken  to  her  home, 
and  for  whose  benefit  the  provision  made  by  some 
generous  friends,  partly  as  a  solace  to  her  own  depart- 
ing spirit,  shed  upon  that  spirit  a  serener  and  brighter 
radiance.  To  him  who  told  her  of  it,  she  said,  joy- 
fully, '••  I  hope  to  have  some  spiritual  ministry  given 
to  me ;  I  have  been  able  to  do  little  here,  but  I 
hope  to  do  more." 

With  great  clearness,  and  in  words  that  were  re- 
tained, she  had  defined  to  a  friend  and  clergyman, 
a  short  time  before,  her  views  of  the  world  to  which 
she  was  drawing  near.  "  I  find  myself  thinking  very 
little  of  the  future  world  as  to  its  '  circumstances.' 
I  mean,  I  am  surprised  to  find  how  little  curiosity  1 
feel  about  it.  I  trust  myself  with  my  Father,  both 
now  and  hereafter.  Whatever  is  best  for  me  then, 
as  now,  I  feel  sure  will  be  ordained If  we  suf- 
fer here,  it  is  by  a  Father's  hand,  it  is  in  wisdom  and 
mercy.  If  we  suffer  there,  it  must  be  no  less  so. 
No,  I  desire  to  suffer  in  the  coming  world,  as  in  this, 
if  He  pleases,  if  He  will  that  I  should.    ,1  have  a 

perfect  trust  and  confidence  in  God Ah,  Mr. 

H ,  it  is  the    self- surrender^   a   renunciation    of 

our  will  for  God's,  which  is  the  thing.  If  we  can 
only  do   this   truly,  it   is   all.     But.  how   much   it 

*  Dr.  C.  C.  Holmes,  of  Milton. 


432 


THE    END. 


means !  It  has  relation  to  the  whole  of  life.  It  in 
dudes  action  as  well  as  endurance.  It  is  a  perpetual 
act.  At  times  we  feel  strong  to  do  it,  —  to  do  it  in 
one  great  act.     But  in  the  details  of  life  we  come 

sadly  short There  are  some  who  seem  to 

think  of  self-surrender  as  implying  and  inducing  a 
certain  weakness  of  the  spirit,  a  giving  up  of  power, 
a  lessening  of  the  soul's  activity.  But  it  is  not  so. 
Far  from  it.  It  implies  no  lessening  of  activity,  of 
energy  or  power  of  character.  It  is  that  these  are 
out  of  self,  and  in  and  for  God." 

"  The  afternoon  of  the  day  before  she  died,"  writes 
her  pastor,  "  I  was  told  that  she  had  expressed  a 
desire  to  see  me.  As  I  entered  the  room,  her  face 
was  perfectly  radiant.  She  knew  that  her  hour  had 
come,  and  she  would  say  a  few  last  words  of  kind- 
ness to  us  all.  '  I  wish  to  thank  you,'  she  said,  '  for 
all  that  you  have  done,  —  every  thing.  And  it  is  all 
here,'  placing  her  hand  on  her  breast,  'it  is  all  here. 
This  peace,  this  peace  I  it  is  all  here.'  '  Yes,'  I  re- 
plied, '  if  we  seek  we  shall  find  it.'  '  I  have  not 
sought    it,'    she    said    quickly.     '  It   came.     It   was 

sent.' '  Come  with   a  smile,''   she  said  to  one 

whom  she  had  called  to  bid  her  farewell.  And  her 
chamber  then  seemed  to  us  more  as  a  forecourt  of 
heaven,  than  a  painful  approach  to  the  tomb." 

On  a  lovely  April  day,  the  windows  of  her  room 
all  open  that  she  might  breathe  freely,  she  looked  up 
at  one  who  entered,  and  said  with  a  smile,  "  What 
a  beautiful  day  to  go  home  I "  Near  the  end,  one 
at  her  side  said  to  another,  in  tears,  "  How  much 
stronger  she  is  than  we  are  !  "    "I  am  so  much  nearer 


THE    END.  433 

the  Source  of  strength,"  she  whispered.  Her  suffer- 
ing was  acute,  but  her  thought  and  care  were  more 
for  others  than  herself,  to  the  last.  Much  of  the 
time  she  held  in  her  hand  that  sacred  note  which 
her  husband  had  written  to  her  when  he  thought 
himself  dying,  at  a  distance.  And  precious,  very 
precious,  must  have  been  to  her  those  last,  parting 
words  from  one  to  whom  she  was  now  going. 
"  Dear,  dear  Mary,  if  I  could,  I  would  express  all  I 
owe  to  you.  You  have  been  an  unspeakable,  an  in- 
describable blessing.  God  reward  you  a  thousand 
fold !     Farewell,  till  we  meet  again." 

In  the  evening  twilight  of  another  balmy  day,  — 
Good  Friday,  —  that  spent  frame  was  laid  by  the 
side  of  his,  in  the  hallowed  rest  of  Mount  Auburn. 
And  as  we  turned  away,  we  felt  that  another  tie  to 
earth  was  broken,  and  heard  another  voice  calling  us 
to  heaven. 


With  regret,  rather  than  gladness,  we  lay  down 
the  pen  which  has  attempted  to  record  the  life  of  a 
humble  Christian.  Delightful  has  it  been  to  renew 
our  communion,  and  extend  our  intimacy,  with  one 
whose  presence  was  always  felt  as  a  blessing.  If 
we  have  transgressed  the  bounds  we  set  for  our- 
selves in  the  beginning,  and  given  expression  to  feel- 
ings as  well  as  facts,  we  can  only  say  that  we  have 
repressed  more  than  we  have  disclosed  of  the  recol- 
lections and  emotions  awakened  by  this  intercourse. 
37 


434  THE    END. 

A  true  portrait  may  seem  to  be  praise,  but  less  than 
that  would  be  injustice. 

We  draw  no  character,  in  the  end,  but  only  refer 
to  the  two  facts  which  seem  most  worthy  of  note. 
First,  the  amount  of  happiness  enjoyed  by  one 
whose  life  was  passed  in  the  midst  of  sickness  and 
trial,  and  who  for  six  years  felt  that  a  fatal  and  dis- 
tressing disease  was  consuming  her  life,  —  yet  could 
say  of  the  whole,  "  It  has  been  a  beautiful  expe- 
rience." "  I  have  been  so  happy,  —  no  one  can 
tell  how  happy."  And,  next,  the  illustration  here 
seen  of  the  large  sphere,  the  vast  power,  and  imper- 
ishable work,  of  a  woman  who  never  left  the  domes- 
tic relations,  nor  aspired  to  any  thing  that  is  not  pos- 
sible to  every  daughter,  wife,  and  mother.  If  this 
appear,  it  is  enough,  —  that  religion,  with  or  with- 
out rank,  wealth,  beauty,  rare  endowment,  varied 
accomplishment,  or  any  singularity,  can  lift  woman 
to  the  highest  distinction  and  confer  the  most  endur- 
ing glory,  —  that  of  filling  well,  not  the  narrow,  but 
the  wide  and  divine  realm  of  Home. 


